


My Brother, My Blood

by PrayerforPuja



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Comedy, F/M, First Kiss, Friendship, Gen, Johnlock - Freeform, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Love, M/M, Original Character(s), Plot Twists, Romance, Sherlock series 3 alternate ending, major angst, mystrade, series 3 alternate version
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 12:44:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 27,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1186342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PrayerforPuja/pseuds/PrayerforPuja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The east wind is coming, and it's heading straight towards Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. As Sherlock and John hold onto each other, embracing their inevitable end, Mycroft Holmes stands in front of them, shielding them away from the incoming danger.<br/>Mycroft Holmes: Loving Father, Brother, Son, Friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Empty Deceit

 

_Caring is not an advantage._

The evening sky thundered profoundly as tiny droplets of rain trickled down the glass windows of the Diogenes club, and Mycroft Holmes sat on his comfortable leather armchair facing the windows, and watched them race for the end with each other while taking a sip of the 2001 Saint Emilion wine from his glass, a personal favourite of his. The taste was refreshing, and as he let out a sigh the aroma escaped from his lips. It was a typical Tuesday at the club, a heavy downpour enveloped London and a few men sat in the club at a short distance from each other, without so much as uttering a word. These were high officials from various countries, dignitaries and none ever spoke a word to one another, not so much as “pass the sugar,” as John once put it. Mycroft didn’t care; he was accustomed to the usual silence in that room. He actually preferred it more often, which is why he co-founded the club in the first place. And since he never got any peace and quiet in his office, he spent more of his evenings in the club, so that he could rest his mind and soul away from the circus that surrounds him in Parliament every day, so he could for once be left alone with his thoughts. Especially today, he did not want anybody bothering him at all or calling him or worse; on this particular day, he dreaded hearing two specific words from anybody’s mouth that reminded him of today’s specialty. It was his birthday.

Mycroft was turning 50 today, which is why he recoiled from celebrating his birthday even more or even being reminded that he now reached the golden age of life. Not that he ever enjoyed celebrating birthdays in the first place. But he hated being old; he realized that it was inevitably slowing him down. Every year he felt the pressure of his age burdening his mind and his intellect, making it harder for him to make faster deductions of people and quick decisions in matters, and every year on his birthday the strain of old age felt more powerful than ever before. But even more so, that wasn’t the only cold hard truth burdening his mind.

On this day, today, it would be exactly 35 years since he kept a big secret from his younger brother, Sherlock. Exactly 35 years since he has been lying to his brother constantly in order to keep him safe. It’s been 35 years to this day that Mycroft kept the biggest secret of all: that he was not Sherlock’s brother. He was his biological father.

At that very moment Sherlock and John were running in a dark alley towards a man who murdered his colleague. They were on this case for 3 days, and of course Mycroft was keeping tabs on them. He knew that it was just another case and there was nothing to worry about, but still in some deep recess of his mind he still worried for his safety and the very thought of it raced his heartbeat a few notches. Mycroft’s nerves jittered at the sudden acceleration, and he closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to calm him down. Taking another sip from his glass of wine, he leaned back onto his chair and looked away from the sodden windows. Rain always did make him melancholy, so he decided to close his eyes and focus on a summer morning, the warm rays of the sun hitting his skin as the cold dampness evaporated from his body. This brought back a certain memory in his mind which brought him to Sherlock in the first place.

 

* * *

 

 

 

It all started one particular summer at St. Paul’s school in London. 14 year old Mycroft Holmes walked along the footsteps with his backpack, books in hand and wearing thick glasses and a red cardigan, and as he was about to reach the door he was pushed by a large, red-haired pimply teenager who merely laughed with his friends at the sight of Mycroft falling to the floor, sightlessly looking for his glasses. He found them and put them back on and looked up, and saw the smug grin of the teenager as he said, “Hey Mike! You forgot your books!” and stomped on his fallen books as he walked away. “What a loser,” one of his friends remarked as Mycroft picked up his books and half-heartedly headed to class. Mycroft didn’t care, being bullied in school was in his daily routine. He also knew that the red-head who bullied him every day is constantly under pressure at home because of his parents’ ongoing divorce, he got that from one look at his flaccid shoulders, and judging by the poor state of his clothes and the bags under his eyes, he was also going through listening to his parents bicker and fight every night and probably a lot of domestic abuse was involved as well, judging by his slurred speech and constant anger. Mycroft loved to deduce, it was his most favourite thing to do. His intellect and deductive powers is what got him through every boring moment in school, he had no friends at all and yet he preferred to stay that way. His only desire was gaining more knowledge. He was being his usual self, proving himself to be the smartest kid in every class, solving tough math problems above his grade level and taking subjects no 14 year old could dream to understand. He was promoted, twice, and now he attended classes where his classmates were 3-4 years older than him. His parents couldn’t be prouder. But it also meant being the weakest and most targeted person for bullying. And then, one day, he met Silvia.

17 year old Silvia Jennings walked into the chemistry lab with her friend and Mycroft’s eyes immediately fell upon her. She had a gorgeous face with beautiful porcelain skin, her lips a perfect Cupid’s bow, with distinctive cheekbones and solid, stunning curly black hair. Mycroft had never noticed another girl with such interest before, in fact he never desired to, but with her it seemed like he was suddenly fastened in the locks of her thick, curly hair and couldn’t escape her beauty, and as she entered the class he couldn’t help but stare at her constantly. A group of students stood in front of him but it didn’t block his view of her, since he was always tall growing up it wasn’t an issue. Her friend noticed him staring and seemed to have whispered about it to her in her ear, and she turned and their eyes met. Mycroft immediately turned his gaze away from her, in a sudden moment of embarrassment he looked away and later only gazed at her for a moment or two, in which he could swear, he saw her smiling a little, and looked away again.

Mycroft took another sip from his wine glass and let his mind wander about his teenage years, how meeting Silvia had completely turned his life around. Unexpectedly that day, both of them were randomly chosen to be each other’s lab partners, and as she approached him they stood at equal heights from each other even with the three-year age difference and they both shook hands and said hello. He was still amazed to this day at how quickly he could connect with Silvia after talking with her for the first time, even unlikely back then when he hated the very thought of people or company. But she was different. Mycroft was immediately attracted to her, not because of her beauty, he was never interested in such superficial things, but because of her intelligence. She was spectacularly brilliant; she excelled in the subjects of Physics and Chemistry and her reasoning skills were spot on. She was like him in many ways, only she was more direct in her approach and did not tolerate any sass or derision from other people. Basically she feared no one; Mycroft realized that when she stood up to the red-head when she saw him pushing Mycroft to the ground the next time. She spared no expense in her insults towards him, and finally after having an earful from her which included some very personal deductions of his household state, he couldn’t help but keep his distance from both of them after that.

There was no stopping them both from connecting after a while. Mycroft and Silvia did everything together, home-works, science projects, assignments, even competed against each other and were once even tied in a math quiz. Mycroft loved spending time with her; every single moment he loved spending alone he now willingly shared with Silvia. His parents were pleased that he had a friend now, being the difficult kind of boy he was they were amazed that he finally came out of his shell and found someone he could connect with. Those months with her were the best memories Mycroft ever had, but he never cherished them since they eventually led to disappointment and regret.

Never did he imagine that their friendship would quickly turn to something more physical, never did he imagine that the experience which at first felt like trepidation and confusion would soon result in something more intimate and gratifying than he could have imagined. Never did he think that in only a few months his love for Silvia would reach such a level where he felt like they were one. Never did he imagine that one day, out of the blue, Silvia would leave London without a word with her father, without saying goodbye to him or at least giving him a reason for leaving him forever. Never did he imagine that she would abandon him like that, leaving him a broken boy with nothing to live for and nothing to lose, to leave him in the same sad, lonely, bullied state she found him. Never did he anticipate that his heart could ache so much for one person, that even having emotions or feeling love would cause so much pain that he would have no choice but to bury them so deep that he could never feel anything ever again. Never did he calculate that his heartbreak would cause him to give up the things he loved most, making deductions, learning physics and doing experiments at the lab, and sometimes, practicing art, which eventually led him to choose more theory-based subjects like History, Politics and Economics which made him the bureaucrat he is today, losing his love for an adventurous scientific career and in the end embracing a sedentary, political lifestyle.

But more importantly, never did he expect the surprise that was waiting for him on his doorstep at his parents’ home the next year.

 

* * *

 

 

Just then his phone vibrated, and Mycroft’s thoughts were suddenly cut short. He imagined that it might be one of his colleagues wishing him a happy birthday, and twitched at the thought, and looked at his phone with mild exasperation. It was Andrea, aka Anthea.

_“Sir, Sherlock was not seen purchasing any cigarettes today, nor has he been spotted visiting any shady places. Our men have reported that he and John were busy all morning working on the case of the dead professor, and they are now in Scotland Yard handing over the murderer to Det. Inspector Lestrade. –A”_

Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief after reading that message. Good, he thought, nothing to worry about. Sherlock appears to be in no danger today, from anyone or himself. His slightly erratic heartbeat now returned to normal. He replied:

_“Excellent. Tell our markers to call it a day, and begin again tomorrow. –MH”_

Right now there was nothing else to worry about. Soon after a small group of press would be gathering, one of whom would be Mycroft’s men, and after that Sherlock and John would meet Molly’s fiancé and open a bottle of champagne celebrating their recent engagement, both men would head downstairs to give an official statement of Sherlock’s return from the dead.

“I asked for one more miracle, Sherlock,” John said as they stood in front of the door downstairs, both still shocked and amused after looking at Molly’s new fiancé, who clearly didn’t mind dressing up as Sherlock. “I asked you to stop being dead,” John whispered silently.

Sherlock merely looked at him with a hint of appreciation and answered; “I heard you.” As Sherlock walked towards the door he saw the old deerstalker hat he once dreaded and picked it up and out it on, without another thought, and smiled as he said, “Now, let’s go and be Sherlock Holmes.” John simply smiled, he knew that Sherlock missed his old life of being the famous “hat” detective, being a hero, and that being dead wasn’t much fun after all. They got out and were greeted by a horde of photographers and journalists, all curious to know how he did it, and after they answered their questions and headed back upstairs, Mycroft’s man texted him saying everything went as it should and that there were no jeopardising questions asked and that Sherlock’s return has been successful with the media. Mycroft smiled and thanked him via text, and told him to head home. His payment would be wired to his bank account by morning.

Mycroft Holmes had spared no expense or manpower in ensuring the safety of his son. He had placed several spotters all around Baker Street, hidden from Sherlock’s view, to keep a constant eye on him and follow his every move. These men reported directly to him or to Anthea about Sherlock’s whereabouts, and if he were in any sort of danger, the spotters were ordered to take action immediately. These trained professionals never actually had to intervene when Sherlock was being attacked or was about to go off the rails, since he always had John by his side. This was another thing that Mycroft was thankful for, the relationship between Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

When he first met John, he thought he might use him as another one of his spotters, and offered him money to spy on Sherlock. He realized that it was a mistake, that he didn’t need to pay him at all, that his loyalty to Sherlock was unquestionable. He regretted his underestimation of John Watson; since day one he had proved himself to be the most loyal, trustworthy friend Sherlock could ever have, and the best fortification for Sherlock that Mycroft could ever hope for. After making Anthea do a detailed background check on John, Mycroft learnt more about him and realized that this is the best man for Sherlock as his friend, and given how many friends Sherlock actually has in his life, Mycroft realized that Sherlock can’t afford to lose him by any means possible. John Watson is the best thing that happened to Sherlock in a long time, ever since Redbeard.

He made every effort he could to make sure John would still be in Sherlock’s life. Every single time it felt like John might slip away from Sherlock, he made some attempt to make sure they stick together. After Sherlock’s fall, Mycroft realized John would most certainly lose the connection he once had with Sherlock. He kept tabs on John all the time for two years constantly, and when Mary Morstan came in the picture, Mycroft made sure to know everything there was to know about her. It didn’t take him long to find out that she was an ex-assassin, with a long history of deaths and freelance hit-men work and covert operations behind her. She seemed to have buried it all and start a new life, but Mycroft could not be certain. To him, she was a probable threat. A threat to John. And even if she might not kill her own husband, she might certainly try and harm Sherlock if he were to ever find out her truth, which he most certainly would. Balance of probability, he anticipated. He decided to make a move. He met Mary in an undisclosed location, and very politely told her to leave London, to leave John immediately. And if she did not comply, Mycroft assured her he would do everything in his power to make sure the people in her past would find out her current location. So he ordered her to run as far away as she could and never even think of returning back to John again. That did the trick. Soon after, Mary was gone. John was once again left all alone, broken, lost. But not for long.

Soon after, Mycroft decided it was time to bring Sherlock back home. One of his agents at the British Secret Service died to retrieve information which said that a terrorist attack was imminent in London, and he knew that was all it would take to bring his son back. He realized Sherlock had enough beatings and life-threatening situations surrounding him finding Moriarty’s network, and now it was time to come home. And he did, gladly, but clearly Sherlock’s biggest tension was not about finding the underground terrorist network, but of confronting John. It wasn’t easy, obviously there were a few punches involved until finally John forgave him after a while. He realized how much he missed Sherlock and he was not ready to live in an empty apartment anymore. He asked for one more miracle, and that wish was granted to him. Both men were back in Baker Street once again, living together, solving crimes. And Mycroft couldn’t be happier.

Maybe it was some sort of apology for not being there for Sherlock like he should have when he was young, we’d never know. But Mycroft was certainly trying to make up for lost time, not by being there, but by making sure someone worthy enough was there for Sherlock at all times. Sherlock may profess as much as he wanted that he likes being alone, that alone protects him, but Mycroft knew well enough that even Sherlock required some form of company, that he hated being lonely and desired a good friend who was there for him, and even though silence was golden at times even a lonely man could feel deafened by it. After all, like father, like son.

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft got up from his leather chair after finishing his drink and picked up his umbrella. His car was waiting for him outside. He was a creature of habit and his driver knew he always got out of the club at this precise hour. As the car headed towards his home through the busy streets of London, Mycroft looked out his window towards the pouring rain which enveloped the whole city and hid the outside world from his view. As he sat there in the back seat alone, his mind slipped back to a certain cool winter morning when he was 15, and was visiting his parents after a break. He was sipping hot tea in front of the fireplace while his mother and father chatted on about their neighbour’s son getting married and how wonderful the bride-to-be was. Mycroft scoffed and stood up; he couldn’t handle any more of that discussion since it made his head throb, and asked to be excused and went outside. In the later months after Silvia left him, Mycroft was a changed man. Within just a few months he became more moody and distant; the curious child in him was gone and was replaced by a tall, mean, brooding teenager. He started working out more, took swimming and boxing and burnt all his notebooks where he spent deducing minute details of several chemical compounds and replaced them with swimming and boxing gear, his science projects replaced by football trophies and medals, and now as he reached the end of his high school year he had already planned on taking Economics as his major at Oxford, which he was certain he would get into. He was a jock in every way; he didn’t care about anyone but himself which made him gain a lot of notoriety among the teachers and popularity at school. He soon became the mysterious, handsome teenager from the geekish nerd in no time, and his young age was never a problem anymore since he physically matured on the same level as his classmates.

Mycroft stepped outside to let the cold wind allow a tiny shiver along his body as he took out the pack of cigarettes from his jeans pocket. He started smoking few months ago, and soon became addicted to it. He was still a beginner though, so he stuck to low tar. He lit the cigarette, inhaled loudly and let out a cloud of smoke that covered his face, and a few moments later as the cloud ascended above him Mycroft’s eye caught something odd near the gateway. It was an object; a basket placed next to the mast near the small gate, and it seemed even from a distance that the inner contents of the basket were moving. He walked towards the gate to look into the basket, and knelt down and lifted up the small blanket. When he saw what was inside, the cigarette dropped from his mouth onto the ground.

It was a baby. A small, feebly dressed baby boy, inside the basket, pale and shivering in his sleep. He seemed very small and fragile, like he was only weeks old. Mycroft stopped breathing for a second, and then let out a small gasp in shock. Who would leave a baby on their lawn? Half naked inside a basket on a cold February morning? Mycroft was astonished. He then noticed a small note tucked by the side of the baby. He slowly pulled it out so as to not wake the baby up, and unfolded it. It read:

_Mycroft,_

_Apologies. Circumstances arose and I had to leave the country with my father. This is your son. Since it would be impossible for me to raise him, I hope you take good care of him._

_Silvia._

Mycroft shuddered. Not because of the cold, but because how harsh and business-like Silvia’s note actually sounded while giving him news as shocking as this. _This is your son._ He re-read the sentence again. He couldn’t believe it. It was not possible. And yet, he was uncertain. Silvia seemed different the last few days they were together, throwing up a couple of times and acting more emotional than usual. Mycroft still remembered every detail about her, and even though he thought of asking her about it he decided it was best not to mention the signs. And now, here he was. His prediction was right. Silvia _was_ pregnant. Pregnant with his baby, and yet she chose to leave him. _Circumstances arose_. What kind of circumstances could possibly arise that she had to uproot and flee the country with her father, especially when she was pregnant? Mycroft couldn’t fathom. He never met her father; he only knew that he worked for the British government. Single parent, respectable job, good household conditions. So what prompted him to take his daughter and leave? At this point, none of that mattered to Mycroft; all that mattered was that there was a child in front of him who was his son.

Mycroft slowly lifted the baby boy up. The baby slightly twitched in his sleep at the touch of Mycroft’s hands, and he picked him up from underneath the covers and looked at him closely. He was the spitting image of Silvia even as a baby, his lips a perfect Cupid’s bow and soft, porcelain skin. His features also resembled his parents in a lot of ways, which gave him the certainty that it was his child. But, as he stared into the innocent face of his son, he could not ignore the deception he strongly felt. Silvia’s deception; her cold derisive facade in the letter she wrote, and now her abandoning her own son. He can’t imagine how someone could be so cold. His anger turned to hatred, his hatred poisoned his heart. And now his heart couldn’t love his son, even as he looked upon his face he could feel nothing but contempt since all he reminded him of was Silvia. As Mycroft got up, the baby suddenly started crying.

Mycroft rushed back inside and closed the door. His parents walked towards him after hearing the loud thud, and were shocked to see him holding a baby in his hand. Mycroft told them everything; he handed them the note that was left along with the boy and told them how Silvia just left him in the front lawn near the gate. His parents were as astonished as him; his mother asked him many questions and his father just stood there silently, puzzled.

“This is preposterous! Who does she think she is?” his mother exclaimed. “We invited her into our home, and now she gets pregnant somewhere and blames our Mike for it,” she yells furiously, looking at his father.

Mycroft sighed. “Mummy, it’s true,” he replies gently, “This is my son. Silvia was clearly pregnant before she disappeared, she didn’t have to tell me, I noticed.”

His mother now turned to him. She paused, and then said slowly: “So, you’re telling me... that, you both... had sex?”

“Yes,” Mycroft whispered, hoping for an earful from her next.

Instead, she simply looked at her son. Words were developing in her mind but she chose not to utter them. She felt it would be best not to say anything, for now. She looked away, and towards the child in his hands. “Let me see him,” she said without looking at Mycroft, and walked towards him. Mycroft handed her the baby, and she held him in her arms and looked intently. Whatever hurt feelings she felt at that moment after learning that Mycroft kept such a big secret from her, seemed to disappear instantly.

Her expression turned into a smile, and as the baby cried persistently she whispered to him, “Aww, there, there. It’s alright, shh. _Oh dear_! He is shivering! Goodness I can’t imagine how long he must’ve been lying out there in the cold. What kind of a _mother_ leaves her child like that! Shhh, hush now. Don’t cry love. It’s okay. Grandma’s here.” There was a tone of motherly affection in her voice, which seemed to soothe the baby’s ears, and his tears stopped. He now gazed at her widely, astonished by this giant face in front of him, and even at this age it seemed like the baby was studying her. Mycroft’s mother laughed. “Ahh, _good_ _boy_! Come look at him dear,” she motioned towards her husband, “he looks like our young Mike, doesn’t he? Look at those big pearly eyes staring. Isn’t he precious?”

Her husband agreed and smiled as he looked at their grandson. Mycroft did not expect such a reaction, instead he was preparing himself for the opposite, but then again his parents were always an unpredictable lot. He stiffly said, “Don’t worry mum, I’ll call Child Protective Services in a while and they can sort this problem out. I’m sure they’ll give him a proper home.”

“ _Nonsense_!” his mother exclaimed. “This is your son, Mike. How could you even think of giving him away?”

“He is _not_ my son, mum,” Mycroft said coldly. “He’s just an unexpected outcome produced by our inexperience and my clouded judgement.”

“Well whatever happened between you two, this child has _no right_ to bear the consequences of your poor decisions. He is not going anywhere,” replied his mother sternly.

“I agree with her,” his father commented, “Granted this is an unexpected surprise, but a good surprise nonetheless. This is your son, _Mycroft_ ,” he emphasized, “our grandson, and we are not abandoning him.”

“Well how do you suppose I raise him, dad?” Mycroft exclaimed. “I’m going to college soon. Should I just give up everything, my life, my career, and stay at home instead? I’m not ready to be a parent yet, maybe not ever.”

His parents looked at each other. Their son was right. He can’t just abandon his future and give up everything. And he was too young to raise a son on his own. His mother heaved a sigh, and then began after making a decision in her mind, “Don’t you worry about it dear. You won’t have to give up anything. We will raise him as our own son.”

“Mum, you don’t understand. He will eventually ask questions about his real parents. What will we-

“He will never find out the truth, dear,” his mother assured him. “Not unless we tell him, which we won’t. All he needs is a stable home and loving parents and that’s what we will always try and be for him.”

Mycroft was about to say something when his father interrupted him. “Your mother is right,” he said, “For all intents and purposes he is our son now. He is family, and I’d like to think we’ve got some vitality left in us to raise another boy,” He chuckled and his wife smiled as they looked into the baby’s eyes.

Mycroft couldn’t believe his ears. “I can’t deal with this right now,” he grunted, and picked his coat from the door hangar and left the house. He just kept walking, the cold and the traffic and the people didn’t bother him, he was overwhelmed by his current situation. He was not ready to be a father, like he said, but even more so he was not ready to live for the rest of his life with someone who was a constant reminder of Silvia. He felt he finally eliminated her existence from his mind, only for it all to come crashing back. Her love, her smile, her coldness, her deception, everything. He saw all of it in the baby’s face, and he couldn’t cope with it anymore. He went back home several hours later, only to find his parents sitting on the sofa in front of the fireplace, holding the baby in their hands.

“What shall we name him, honey?” his mother said as Mycroft stood behind them, watching.

“We could name him after my father, William. Good strong name,” replied his father.

“ _William_? I think we should name him _Sherlock_ , after my father. He certainly looks somewhat like dad,” she laughed.

“What about Scott?” Mycroft said and they were both startled for a bit. “You could name him after yourself, dad, since you are going to pose as his father.”

“Oh are we in a pickle now,” his father replied, scratching his head, “I like all three names.”

“That’s it then,” his mother suddenly exclaimed. “It’s decided. William Sherlock Scott Holmes. That is what we’ll name him.”

“Brilliant,” replied his father. “Hello William, welcome to our home little man,” he said, rubbing his gentle head.

“Oh don’t listen to him!” chuckled his mother. “Hello Sherlock, you like that don’t you Sherlock?” she smiled as she tickled his soft belly, and baby Sherlock giggled. “See? He likes that name. I tell you Scott our boy is going to grow up preferring his middle name, you wait and see,” she said with confidence.

Mycroft didn’t say anything. He simply looked at the two of them, coming across happier than ever before with their grandchild. He sighed, and headed upstairs and closed the door. Maybe it was the right decision to give his son a proper home; after all he didn’t deserve to be abandoned just because his mother did not want anything to do with him. Maybe Sherlock’s existence won’t bother him as much as he thought, since he would be leaving soon and would probably only visit during holidays. But his disdain for her did make him feel like he didn’t want anything to do with his son, it is what made him distance himself from Sherlock till he was grown up, and that is a decision he still regrets to this day.

* * *

 

 

The rain subsided around 8 pm and the thundering had finally stopped. Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief; loud noises always disturbed his thought process. He stretched out his legs across the couch and closed his eyes, hands cupped together as the fingertips touched his chin. John sat in his chair in front of his laptop, updating his blog on their most recent case about the dead Professor. He was typing away happily in speed; he always did when they have successfully apprehended the suspect and solved a case, and the clicking noise seemed somewhat soothing to Sherlock as he smiled and pondered over another case hovering over his head for weeks. The underground terrorist network. Ever since Mycroft handed him the case, Sherlock’s homeless network have been spotting every possible marker that Sherlock thinks might be linked to this terrorist cell, but so far he hasn’t gotten anywhere. None of them seem even remotely linked to this network. Even more puzzling was when a client, Howard Shilcott, approached him with the most perplexing case Sherlock came across in a long time. He worked on the Tube, on the District line, and part of his job was to wipe the security footage once it’s been cleared. When Howard looked through the footage, he saw that a woman, standing in her lonesome on Friday night at Westminster station waiting for the last train, got into the last carriage of the train and at the next stop at St. James’ Park, she was gone. It was impossible for the woman to get off since there was a safety mechanism that prevented the doors from opening in transit, there were no side tunnels, maintenance tunnels, nothing on the map which suggested the train could make a side stop. It was a straight run on the District Line between the two stations, the train never stopped, and the woman disappeared.

He contacted Sherlock and showed him the footage, who became more than interested in the case after seeing it. Howard also informed him that the driver of that train hasn’t been to work since; he came into some money and went on a holiday according to his flatmate. Sherlock assumed he must’ve been bought off, also he figured out that the train’s journey from Westminster to St. James’ Park, which usually takes five minutes, took ten minutes instead. That was all he had at that moment. He still couldn’t figure out where the passenger went, how she completely disappeared from inside the train and where would the train go if it took a detour and dropped her off someplace else, in a span of five minutes. Sherlock got tied up in other cases, fillers as he called them, but that doesn’t mean he had forgotten about this unsolved one. His main focus was still about finding this terrorist network before they could make a disastrous move and also figuring out how this vanishing passenger might be connected to it. He did have one lead though, he knew who that woman was, she was a successful businesswoman who owned a newspaper company.

“Sherlock are you even listening to me?” John said suddenly and Sherlock hastily opened his eyes, his thoughts stopped in full flow.

“What?” he said, looking baffled.

“I said, would you like some dinner? I’ve asked you twice, Mrs. Hudson has asked you 12 times already.”

 

“Really? Huh,” he said, hands doubled on his stomach, “I didn’t notice. Must’ve put her on semi-permanent mute again.”

“I still don’t know how you’re able to do that,” John said, “shutting people off completely.”

“Neither do I,” Sherlock admitted. “It just _sort of_ happens, when I’m in my mind palace or when people indisputably tend to bore me.”

“Well I’m sorry,” John replied mordantly, “I just didn’t want to see you starve yourself again, like every other night.”

“Might as well,” Sherlock scorned, “I’m not hungry. Way too busy.”

“Busy with what? We don’t have any case tonight.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He resumed his thinking position, putting his fingertips together and closing his eyes. John realized there was no point bothering him, so he went downstairs to have some dinner and watch television with Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock was lost again, thinking of every possible linkage to this terrorist cell. But, he was not able to focus. A voice kept bothering him while he tried to think, and he shook his head or made a grunting noise whenever that voice said something. “Ugh,” he moaned and waved his hands, “Shut UP!” he squealed, whenever that voice appeared. “Show off,” it said, “You forgot to put your coat collar up,” it repeated.

“Get out of my head, John _I’m trying to think_!” Sherlock said out loud. “What?” John said, sitting next to him, confused at his sudden outburst.

“What?” Sherlock replied, opening his eyes. He didn’t realize it had been 2 hours after John left for dinner. “Oh, nothing. You were thinking, it’s annoying,” Sherlock replied, a bit embarrassed.

John frowned and looked down at his medical journal again. Sherlock looked away; it was becoming obvious to him that now every time John was away, he missed him every moment to the point where he heard his friend’s voice in his head, and the gap of two years heightened that fact. His mind palace was now being invaded by John Watson.

“I was thinking,” John began, after a moment’s silence, “that why haven’t we still talked about the fact that you said ‘don’t leave me John’ in your sleep last night.”

Sherlock looked at him with wide eyes.

“When did I ever say that?” he said looking baffled. “And what were you doing in _my_ bedroom?”

“Bedroom? You passed out on the couch again remember? After staying awake for three days straight,” John sniggered.

Oh great, another embarrassment, Sherlock thought. “I should really control what I say subconsciously,” he thought to himself.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sherlock replied, sounding somewhat discomfited. “I must’ve said something else.”

“Sure you did,” John said satirically. “But just so you know I’m not leaving you. I’m not the one who jumps off buildings remember?”

Sherlock gave a short smile from one side of his face as if he felt relieved to hear that. “Sorry, once again,” he whispered. “One of these days you have to forgive me for that you know.”

“I already did, Sherlock. I’m not mad anymore.”

“No you haven’t,” Sherlock whispered, looking straight at him, “and yes you are still angry, over certain things.”

‘No I’m not,” John replied dryly, without looking up.

“Yes, you are John,” Sherlock said adamantly. “And I understand.”

John didn’t say anything. He pretended to read on, but Sherlock could clearly see he was concentrating on none of those words in the journal.

“Alright,” John looked up, closing the book, “you’re right. I am still mad. I’m still not over the fact that I sat in a closed room, alone, mourning your loss for 2 years and those memories still haunt me.”

Sherlock’s mouth escaped a sigh. His eyes flickered, he could still see the pain lingering somewhere in John’s eyes. He tried to change the subject. “Wasn’t there someone you mentioned who you said was there for you? Marlo... Mata-Hari....”

“Mary,” John snapped, annoyed by Sherlock’s deficiency in remembering people’s names, “yes, she was there. But only for a while. And even she left me. I guess living her life with a broken, damaged man became too much of a burden, and who could blame her? I had almost _nothing_ to offer,” John replied dejectedly, still confused to this day about his sudden break-up with Mary.

“Well,” Sherlock instigated, trying to muster the right words, “she didn’t realize what she missed out on.”

John smiled, as if a few simple words made him forget about his recent break-up. “Don’t worry, I’m fine now,” John responded, “I’ve let it all slide. I’m just glad you’re back.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock muttered. He was clearly not convinced. He just kept looking at John, unable to figure out how to convince his best friend, how to earn his forgiveness. He tried to imagine what normal people would do at this point, but failed. He guessed normal people don’t usually fake their own deaths and reappear 2 years later. But what does one generally do to ask for clemency? Say sorry? He did that, he thought. Then what else? Kiss? No, too corporal. Hug? Yes. But Sherlock was always uncomfortable with hugging or any other form of physical contact. At this point, he was evidently at a loss.

John couldn’t handle Sherlock’s soul piercing stare anymore. He got up from his chair and went towards the table. He put the book next to his laptop, lifted the screen up and hunched down to see how many hits his blog had after his recent post. Close to 800,000 hits. _Not bad_ , John thought and smiled. People were clearly happy that their favourite ‘hat’ detective is back, and after his recent stunt he seemed to the people like an indestructible God. He smirked and turned around, only to be startled by this tall detective standing inches away from him. He didn’t even hear Sherlock move, and yet there he was standing, about to try and say something or do something but clearly feeling awkward about it.

“Sherlock, what is it?” John asked, looking at Sherlock’s befuddled expression.

Sherlock did not say anything. He simply stood there, lips trembling. He was about to do something he found to be very uneasy, but he was going to do it anyway. He wanted John’s forgiveness.

Out of the blue, Sherlock stretched out his arms and embraced John. He squeezed John tight at first out of awkward confusion, as he didn’t know the right way to hug someone. He then let his grip ease a bit, and held his position holding onto John.

John’s initial reaction was extreme shock. His eyes went so wide that they were about to pop out of his skull. _Sherlock Holmes was hugging him._ This was even more shocking to him than the moment when he saw Sherlock alive after two years. In the recesses of his mind, he was expecting that, like he knew somehow, in some way Sherlock would be able to cheat death. He was an ass like that. He knew it, or at least he wanted to believe in it. But this? This was completely unexpected. This was as if watching an angel statue at some cemetery coming to life and pouncing on him.

“Uhh, Sherlock?” John uttered, trying to breathe from the nape of Sherlock’s neck through Sherlock’s death grip, given how short he was compared to Sherlock. “What, _in God’s name_ , are you doing?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied frankly, feeling baffled and ill at ease himself whilst holding John. “I see people doing this kind of crap on telly, whenever they’re sorry or when they’re asking the other actors for forgiveness. I find it ridiculous, and it observably is, but since you go for that sort of thing, I’m giving it a go. I’m sorry John, for everything.”

Sherlock is the only man who manages to insult and apologise at the same time. After a moment or two, John couldn’t help but chuckle. The whole situation was hilarious; Sherlock was actually trying to appeal to his better nature. And it was working. John put his hands on Sherlock’s back, smiling.

“It’s alright Sherlock,” he grinned, “I’m not angry. I’m just... sort of... adjusting. To this entire situation. It all still feels very strange, and I guess I still haven’t fully recovered yet. I still haven’t found my way back home, but I’m getting there.”

Sherlock smiled and looked somewhat disgruntled. It wasn’t the response he wanted to hear, but it was close enough. It’ll have to do for the time-being, he thought. Maybe this would help stop the guilt-ridden voices in his head for a while.

“So, can I let go now?” Sherlock asked improbably. “I don’t know the approximation of how long these hugs last.”

“Yep, you can let go now,” John responded, and Sherlock let go of him. John took in a deep breath, as if his oxygen supply was partially cut-off for a while, and let the air out. Sherlock simply smiled at him. John looked into his eyes and smiled back, and he could see that Sherlock meant what he was saying. He truly was regretful; in his elaborate plan to save John Watson and the rest by doing what he did, he never factored in the equation the emotional turmoil it would cause his best friend. His mind only predicted the logical outcome, never the emotional or the sentimental one. Sherlock was never one for sentiment, but when it comes to John; his brain loses the battle with his heart.

Both men simply stared at each other’s eyes and face for what felt like a few awkward moments, but John couldn’t revert his eyes away from Sherlock’s. For the first time he was seeing a hint of emotion on that man’s face, and it was beautiful. He wanted to memorize it, to savour it, who knows when Sherlock would look like this again. After several seconds, he finally looked away, and said, “Okay. Well,” he had no words in his mind, “umm, well then,” he looked at Sherlock one last time, smiled sheepishly, and then walked towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked.

“Umm, oh nothing. Just out, for a bit. I need some air. I’ll be back in an hour,” John stammered. He fiddled his hands into his leather gloves and picked up his jacket. Sherlock turned back and headed for his chair. As John opened the door, Sherlock said behind him, sitting: “You know, one of these days you will have to forgive me. You have to accept that the end justified the means.”

John turned his head to look at him. “I hope so too,” he replied. He then smiled, shut the door behind him and headed downstairs.

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He simply joined his fingertips together, as if in a judicial mood, and looked at John’s chair. He purely didn’t care if he made John uncomfortable. He wanted to apologise to John and was trying his level best. He tried to think back to the case of the underground network. But his mind drifted away, he wasn’t able to focus again, and this time it wasn’t John’s voice in his head. It was a feeling. Hugging John Watson didn’t seem so bad after all. It was, _different_.

John walked out of 221B and shut the door by pulling on the knocker. He just stepped out, stopped, paused and looked down. That whole thing was awkward. Even John had to admit it. Sherlock never behaved this way. Never so caring, never giving a damn, and certainly never hugged anyone as far as John knew. But it seems these two years have changed him. Made him think of his priorities. His apology was sincere, that was evident, and John even considered uttering the three words Sherlock wanted to hear, which was “I forgive you,” but John could not muster it. It wasn’t easy for John either, and he was still somewhat angry at his friend, and even though it hurt like hell to see him bleed out on the pavement, the lie hurt even more. But nevertheless, his best friend was back, the only man he ever cared about was back, and that triumphed above all. John looked up and realized what he truly felt. His love for Sherlock and his happiness at his return outweighed his anger. He realized he already forgave him. He turned around and looked back at the door, about to re-enter and tell Sherlock once and for all that yes; he forgave him a long time ago. That he was the best and wisest man John had ever met, and that his love for Sherlock was too strong for him to remain up in arms.

As John was about to take a step forward towards 221B, he was brusquely pushed on the shoulder by a pedestrian on the sidewalk. He wore a black cap and a blue sweatshirt, and he just barged past John as if he didn’t even acknowledge his presence. John threw an annoyed look at him. “Excuse you,” he said sarcastically.

The man simply glanced over his shoulder to give him a cold, dry look and kept walking. John looked at him suspiciously and then turned away, but suddenly he felt something pierce his neck. A man swiftly walked up to him and jammed a needle on the right side of his neck as he grabbed John’s left wrist. Perplexed, John struggles as hard as he could to fight him off, grab his face, neck, grab something, but he couldn’t reach the man behind him. The drug injected into him was already taking effect, and John’s reflexes, muscles and consciousness were already starting to fail him. His struggle weakened and faded and in a few moments, he was starting to lose consciousness and motor controls. The first man came back and both of them held him as he slowly fell to the ground and finally gasped and closed his eyes. “Sherl...” he tried to mutter for the last time, and then he was out cold.

 

* * *

 

 

On the other side, Mycroft’s car was finally able to wiggle out of the nauseating traffic and Mycroft breathed a sigh of relief. The rain stopped midway and Mycroft could see the cars and the people surrounding them. Just then, his phone buzzed again. It was a text from an unknown number. He wondered who it could be, since Sherlock was safe and sound at home and hoped it wasn’t another blasting birthday wish or some kind of spam.

He looked at the text and read the first sentence. Bible spam, he thought and frowned. He then started reading the rest of the message:

_Save souls now!_

_John or James Watson?_

_Saint or Sinner?_

_James or John?_

_The more is Less?_

It didn’t take Mycroft two milliseconds to realize it was no spam, but a skip code. The insignificant words seemed to fade away, leaving just the vital ones; first word, then every third.

“Turn the car around, NOW!” Mycroft roared at the driver who got shaken at his boss’ sudden outburst. “Turn back to the city, its _urgent_.”

“Did you forget something sir?” he asked innocently, confused.

“No, JUST DO IT!”

The driver obliged. He made a U-turn and rammed his foot on the accelerator. “Drive faster,” Mycroft roared apprehensively.

“Where are we heading, sir?”

“Baker Street. At my brother’s place. John Watson is in danger. _Step on it_.”

 

* * *

 


	2. His Last Act

Mycroft’s car raced faster than any moving vehicle on the road, blazing through static traffic, stop signs and red lights, and no policeman dared stop it since most of them knew who the car belonged to after checking the licence plate. They didn’t want an unlimited sabbatical waiting on their desk the next day.

On the other side, John opened his eyes, still dizzy from the paralytic injected into him, with one side of his face bloody from scratches. He couldn’t move nor could he make a sound. The paralytic was still in effect, it hadn’t worn off yet. Through distorted vision he could see that he was in an enclosed, dark space surrounded by foliage and wooden slabs and he was lying on top of what felt like grass. The moonlight entered its way into the enclosed space through tiny cracks. He had no idea where he was and could not utter a cry for help. All he could think of was Sherlock. All he wanted was to feel Sherlock’s hands on him, pulling him out of this ominous darkness.

Mycroft’s driver stopped the car to a halt, right in front of 221B. Mycroft jumped out of the car frantically and banged on the door. Perplexed, Mrs. Hudson opened the door to see who it was knocking at this hour and saw Mycroft, who just barged into the flat without stopping.

“Oh Mrs. Hudson, I’m sorry but, is Sherlock here? I think someone’s got John Watson,” Mycroft mumbled as he gently pushed his way in. He had no time for chit-chat.

Sherlock was in his coat and scarf and holding a bag of chips in his hands. After John left, he went out for some fish and chips as he felt famished for not having any dinner. He turned his head at the sound of Mycroft’s voice.

Mrs. Hudson was completely baffled. “Hang on! What happened to John?” she asked as she raced behind him.

Mycroft stopped partway up the stairs to look at her. “No time to explain Mrs. Hudson. I need to speak with Sherlock, _now_ ,” he said and hurried upstairs, leaving Mrs. Hudson with a partial look of panic on her face.

Sherlock was already on the landing by now. “Mycroft? What’s wrong?” he asked, worried since his brother never enters his flat if there is no urgent matter involved, and certainly not like this.

“Someone sent me this,” Mycroft replied, pulling out his phone, “I don’t recognize the number so at first I thought it was a Bible spam, but it’s not, I realized it’s a skip-code.”

Sherlock looked at the first part of the message:

_Save souls now!_

_John or James Watson?_

“First word, then every third. Save...John...Watson,” Sherlock deduced as Mycroft scrolled up to show the rest of the message.

_Saint or Sinner?_

_James or John?_

_The more is Less?_

In an instant, the insignificant words faded in Sherlock’s mind, leaving only the vital ones:

_Saint_

_James_

_The Less_

Sherlock dropped his bag of chips onto the floor. “ _Now_ ,” he said urgently to Mycroft, and both men rushed out of the flat in a hurry. John Watson was definitely in danger.

“Saint James the Less, it’s a church, I presume it’ll take around 20 minutes by...”

“I know where it is, Mycroft,” Sherlock cut him off tediously, worried fretfully for John. “Did you drive here?”

“ _Err_ , yes,” Mycroft replied as they got out of the flat and Sherlock pelted out onto the street. His mind went into hyperactive mode the moment he found out John’s in danger. It always does that, Sherlock never understood why. _“Too slow, it was too slow_ ,” Sherlock said through gritted teeth and a car swerves around him and the driver honks his horn, but Sherlock seemed oblivious to it. He paces about in the middle of the street frantically when Mycroft finally says, “Then perhaps we should manoeuvre on something faster.” Sherlock looks ahead towards two oncoming headlights and responds, “I concur.” Mycroft looks behind him and realizes what his son meant. He walks and stands next to Sherlock, and both men lift up a domineering hand. The riders of two approaching motorcycles see them and slam on their brakes hastily and the bikes skid to a halt just in time. The riders seemed to know each other since both the Holmes noticed them wearing jackets with similar patches stitched on them, but they didn’t have time for any of that now.

Soon after, both Mycroft and Sherlock race towards the church on the motorcycles wearing the previous riders’ helmets. Sherlock calculates how long it would take to reach Saint James the Less church. Currently it would take 10 minutes. Mycroft contemplated the same. His phone suddenly buzzes with another text alert and Mycroft pulls out his phone.

_Getting warmer Mr Holmes_

_You have about ten minutes_

Mycroft kept one hand on the throttle and showed Sherlock the message with the other. “What does it mean? What are they going to do to him?” Mycroft yelled.

“I don’t know,” Sherlock yelled back. He didn’t like not knowing, certainly not when his best friend is involved. His adrenaline amplified tenfold as his heartbeat increased twenty times more than usual, stressing over John’s well-being at that instant.

On the other side, John struggles very hard to move, but all in vain. Out of the blue he could hear the faint laughs and cheers of little children through the small gaps of his present cell. He tries very hard to scream but all he could let out was a tiny, inaudible gasp. _“Oh Sherlock, where are you?”_ John kept thinking at the back of his mind.

Both men drive on. Mycroft lifts up his phone wheeling next to Sherlock showing him the latest message:

_8 minutes_

_And counting..._

Sherlock and Mycroft suddenly notice the roadblock ahead of them. _“Damn!”_ Sherlock exclaims as they slam on their brakes. The road ahead was sealed off with police tape, and two police officers on the scene were clearing up the circumstances to other drivers.

Mycroft looks towards his left and yells: “This way Sherlock!”

Sherlock glances over his shoulder to look where Mycroft was pointing at. He saw what Mycroft was implying and soon enough he briskly works out an alternate route which he superimposes onto the original route. This direct route would take them to the church in 5 minutes, whereas the actual route had an ETA of 8 minutes. Mycroft turns his wrist to pull up the throttle and turns his bike 90 degrees towards the left and races on, whilst Sherlock does the same and follows him. They head up onto the pavement and into the causeway between two buildings. One of the police officers sees them and hollers behind them, “Oi! You can’t go down there!” but it was useless. Ignoring the officer, the Holmes’ men rode down the flight of steps and onto the road at the bottom towards the mall, and they raced forwards toward Buckingham Palace.

Somewhere else, a festivity was starting in a small park in a square near the location of the church. It was Guy Fawkes Day, and the people gathered there were celebrating with fireworks in their hands. A little girl, Zoe, looks towards the enormous pile of broken wooden pallets, fixtures, and every other foraged material which would later be set ablaze as a bonfire. She gazes up curiously at the Guy Fawkes dummy set on top of the pile, sensing something odd about the whole thing. Nobody knew that John was at the bottom of the bonfire out of sight, and if they lit it John would be burnt along with it. A man approaches near the pile with a flaming log of wood and lowers it to the foot of the fire, as the rest of the people cheer on. Inside, John thrashed and moaned quietly trying to move and get up, his gasps getting louder.

On the way, Mycroft receives a new message:

_Better hurry_

_things are_

_hotting up here..._

Mycroft accelerates faster after reading the message and Sherlock tries to keep up with him. Now even Mycroft was vexed; he was not about to let the only good thing that ever happened to his son get hurt, or worse. He is not one for stealing people’s motorcycles and galloping around the streets of London, but at this point, time was of the essence.

As the man at the park tries to light the pile on fire, he realizes that it was a bit damp and would need something to help it along. As he walks away, part of the bonfire is smouldering and the smoke drifts across John who persistently tries to cry for help. His voice seemed to get stronger as the little girl, Zoe, manages to catch the sound and frowns as she gives a concerned look towards the Guy Fawkes dummy as the noises continue.

_Stay of execution_

_you’ve got two_

_more minutes_

Mycroft read the latest message sent by the unknown number and lifted up his left hand to show it to Sherlock. Sherlock immediately checks his mental map, which showed him that if they continued by road, it would take 3 minutes. However, if they went in a straight line, their ETA will only be 1 minute. He chose the latter and swerves the motorcycle and heads straight down into a pedestrian underpass. Mycroft follows, noticing Sherlock’s strategy and feeling somewhat proud Sherlock mapped it so quickly. He always sat behind his desk; seeing Sherlock actually at work was invigorating. They hustle on, breaking every speed limit.

Zoe’s father comes back with a small can of petrol in his hand. Zoe gently insists him: “He doesn’t like it, daddy.”

“Eh?”

“Guy Fawkes, he doesn’t like it,” the little girl persisted, sensing some form of danger.

Her father ignored her words and unscrewed the lid of the can. “Stay back, Zoe. Back. Now,” he said to her and poured the fuel over the pile of wood. Inside, John’s cries were getting louder. He was almost giving up, but he tried to focus. He let his mind slip back to earlier that evening, remembering Sherlock hug him, smile at him, being there for him, it gave him hope that he might just get out of this.

Sherlock traverses his bike up a steep flight of steps and Mycroft does the same, until they’re out onto the street again. Mycroft and Sherlock were now riding alongside each other and they were finally driving beside the fence alongside the park. Mycroft receives one last text:

_What a shame_

_Mr Holmes._

_John is quite a Guy!_

“ _What does it mean?”_ Mycroft shouts as he shows Sherlock the text message. Sherlock doesn’t reply, and as Zoe’s father throws the flaming torch onto the fuel-soaked pile and it begins to blaze, Sherlock’s head instantly turns towards the glowing bonfire while the onlookers cheer on.

 _“Oh my God!”_ Sherlock gasped loudly as he realized what those cryptic texts meant. His heartbeat skyrocketed. _“No no God no this can’t happen!”_ his mind kept screaming. He wasted no time; he accelerates around the square towards the only gap in the fence adjacent to the park. While the bystanders cheer, John’s voice finally comes to him and he lets out the most vociferous cry he could emit: “HELP!” he screeched.

The instant she hears it, the little girl Zoe screams her lungs out, realizing what just happened and her father runs towards her to shield her from the horror, and the cheers of the people surrounding the bonfire died down and turned to ghastly expressions. They just set a human being on fire. Sherlock and Mycroft race their bikes onto the park and jump off. They drop the bikes to the side and rush as quickly as they could towards the blazing bonfire.

The fire increased speedily now, spreading towards the top of the pile, and John wailed as the heat augmented inside. Throwing their helmets off, Sherlock and Mycroft run towards the fire, shoving people out of the way.

“Move! Move! Move! Move! Move!” both of them screamed at the bystanders. _No, no, no, this can’t happen, John can’t die,_ Sherlock kept thinking to himself as he shouted at the people. Sherlock finally reaches the front of the crowd and races towards the bonfire.

“JOHN!” Sherlock yells and Mycroft runs behind him, yelling: “John! Get out, JOHN!” Both men crouch down and peer through the flames, trying to see where John is while throwing some of the flaming wood aside. They continue to cry out his name and John finally hears them. “Help!” he yells back, at long last relieved to hear Sherlock’s voice. _“Thank goodness,”_ John thought to himself.

Sherlock did not wait any second. He had a location and plunged his arms into the inferno, throwing pieces of the bonfire aside and creating a path into it without thinking of his own safety. “Careful, Sherlock!” Mycroft shouts stridently, worried his son might get burnt as well. Sherlock did not care. Finally, he was able to grab hold of John’s arms and drags him out, pulling him out of the fire and across the ground to safety before Mycroft rolled him over onto the back. John lies there, looking awfully stunned as Sherlock and Mycroft loomed over him.

“John? John!” Sherlock repeatedly calls out his name and gently pats his face. John was alright, he was conscious and breathing. Sherlock was able to breathe normally again as his nerves calmed down. “John?” Mycroft calls out too, checking to see if he was unscathed. Sherlock softly says: “Hey, John?” and looks into his eyes. He raises John’s head upwards to check his injury, and then tries to wake him up. John blankly gazes up at Mycroft then towards Sherlock, his vision still blurry as their faces fade out after a moment. He blinks, trying to force his vision to work but fails as he loses consciousness after a moment due to lack of oxygen inside the flaming bonfire. His last image was Sherlock looking over him, smiling with relief, holding his head. John’s last thought was, “Thank you, Sherlock, thank you, thank you,” before drifting off and going to sleep, partially smiling. Somehow he knew Sherlock would save him, of this he had no doubt.

 

 

* * *

 

 _“Doctor Bishop to Oncology, Doctor Bishop to Oncology,”_ a lady’s voice repeated on the intercom as doctors, nurses and other people walked back and forth in haste. Mycroft Holmes sat on a chair at the hospital facing the room where John was admitted. He fiddled with the magazine and turned the pages indifferently. Inside, Sherlock stood next to the nurse who set up the I.V. for John, who lay on the bed unconscious. A doctor entered the room with a chart in his hand, and Mycroft looked up from the trifling magazine towards them. Sherlock and the doctor appeared to be discussing John’s condition, and after a few minutes of the doctor talking, Sherlock snatched the chart from his hand and looked at it himself. The doctor seemed to throw Sherlock a malicious look, and Mycroft sneered as he looked at them both. Sherlock seemed to be advising the doctor now, and it looked like he was belittling him as he motioned towards John and said something from time to time. After a short while, Sherlock handed him the chart and the doctor walked out of the room. He mumbled something furiously in his throat as he moved on.

Mycroft got up from his chair and went inside. Sherlock slowly walked and stopped near John and sat on the chair beside him, eyes still on John. Mycroft stopped and stood on the right side of John’s bed.

“So, what did the doctor say?” he asked.

“Mild concussion. Passed out due to lack of oxygen. Mild burns. He’ll be alright,” Sherlock replied mechanically.

“That’s good news,” Mycroft responded. He looked over at John. “Well I suppose they might keep him overnight. I’ll call Lestrade and one of the police cars will drop you off and they can investigate why this happened.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied sternly without looking up, deep in his thoughts, fingertips joined, “And Lestrade can’t figure out who did it even if he stood in front of him with a sign on his neck.”

Mycroft scoffed. “You underestimate Greg too much, Sherlock.”

“And you don’t? Ever?” Sherlock looked up.

“That is not the point,” Mycroft retorted trying to change the subject, “The fact is that someone clearly wants you to fall in jeopardy, I’m pretty sure it became evident once they threw John Watson into a flaming pile of rubble.”

Sherlock looked at him for a second before looking away. “I don’t _care_ , Mycroft. Whoever did this, he, or she, just made it personal. And I intend to find out whom, at all costs. Others would only get in the way.” His granite composure made him look graver than ever before.

Mycroft realized there was no point in trying to convince Sherlock to change his mind. His son was as stubborn as him, and he sighed and turned around. “Alright, he said, I suppose I should get back. Long day at the Parliament tomorrow. The anti-terrorist bill is about to be signed, and I must look over all the proceedings.” Sherlock let out a small exasperated whisper, and Mycroft took it as his queue to leave.

He was about to reach the door when Sherlock suddenly looked at him and asked: “Why did you come tonight?”

Mycroft swivelled to look at him. “I’m sorry?” he asked, oddly.

“Tonight. When you received the text message, why did you come rushing? You could have just forwarded me the texts, telling me John was in danger over the phone and I would have saved John myself. And yet, there you were, commandeering motorcycles and racing around London with me in order to save John,” Sherlock asked in his unyielding low baritone, eyebrows raised.

“And?”

“Oh I don’t know. It seems... Well, it seems very unlike you,” Sherlock admitted.

Mycroft pondered over his question. He wondered what he should say, without giving away his fatherly instincts of genuine concern for his son and the man he so unmistakably loved.

“Well, I suppose, I could have done that,” Mycroft began, moving a bit forward, “But I thought it would be best if I went along. I thought you would be lost without me, and besides, how could you have known it was a skip-code if it weren’t for me?”

Sherlock squinted his eyebrows. “Of course I can recognize a skip-code when I see one, _Mycroft_!” he replied angrily, clearly offended.

“Oh yes, yes you could,” Mycroft responded with a hint of sarcasm, “all thanks to what _I_ taught you about code-breaking years ago.”

Sherlock frowned. “Go back to your office Mycroft, and handle your business. Wouldn’t wanna dirty your shoes anymore.”

Mycroft grimaced and turned around towards the door. He stopped near the edge, his back facing Sherlock and John, and without turning he said, “I’m not a cold, heartless monster that you think I am, brother mine. Learn to acknowledge that from time to time.”

Sherlock stared at his brother. “Thank you,” he finally answered after a few moments, “for tonight.” He truly was grateful Mycroft showed up that night and if it weren’t for him, John wouldn’t be alive and breathing.

Mycroft didn’t reply. He gave a petite grin, unseen to Sherlock, and walked out of the room.

Nearby, Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was standing next to the receptionist’s desk with a few other officers. He was talking to one of the nurses, asking which room John Watson was admitted in.

“Detective Inspector, there you are!” Mycroft said as he walked towards him after getting out of the room. Lestrade stood up to look at him. “Yeah, I received your text,” he said gesturing towards the phone in his hand.

“Good. I assume by now you’ve realized what had happened. I hope my message was clear to you,” Mycroft said firmly. He texted Lestrade when he sat in front of the hospital room while Sherlock and the doctors were attending to John.

“Yeah, yeah, got it, my men were canvassing the area to see if anyone there saw John or the men who put John there in the bonfire. We’re also interrogating all the spectators present at the park at the time.”

“Good, that’s good. But I assume that will only get you so far,” Mycroft replied. “I need your help, Greg; I need you to look at something for me.”

“Yeah, sure Sir, tell me,” Greg asked intriguingly.

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked at the other two officers standing. Greg turned around; he understood what Mycroft silently intended. “Err, gentlemen, would you please excuse us for a minute?” he requested.

The men obliged. “Sure boss,” one of the men politely answered and walked away from them, giving them ample space to talk.

Mycroft resumed what he was about to say to Greg. “After they put John inside the bonfire, somebody texted me from a restricted number. That is how me and my brother found out where John was in the first place.”

Greg nodded and listened on. “I need you to find out who this number belonged to. If this was sent from a burner phone, I want to know where it was sent from and who sent it. I want to know everything,” Mycroft insisted.

Greg assured him: “Of course, Mr. Holmes. I’ll do the best I can. The department’s best analysts will work on it and try and locate the origin of the text messages, and our finest officers will give their level best to capture the one behind all this.”

 “No, you don’t understand,” Mycroft interjected, “I want you, and only YOU to work on finding out who this number belonged to. I don’t want anybody else to know about it except you. I want this to be done _off the books_ , and after you find out I want you to report directly to me.”

Lestrade was perplexed.  He couldn’t understand the meaning of Mycroft’s demand.”But sir,” he interposed, “why would you want to keep this off the books?”

“At this moment I don’t trust anybody, except you, not even Scotland Yard,” Mycroft admitted. They both looked at each other, and after a few moments Greg finally began: “I don’t think I can do this, Mr. Holmes. It’s highly unorthodox, and I can’t withhold information from my colleagues about an ongoing case.” Greg tried hard to stare directly into Mycroft’s eyes as he tried to make his point, his left-eye slightly twitching with fleeting fear. Mycroft was more than a superior; he _was_ the British government and could have his badge for breakfast. Instead, Mycroft gave a supporting look.

“I understand,” Mycroft said and sighed, “that what I’m asking you is too divisive. It is not my intention to get you into trouble. But you must understand. Tonight, John Watson’s life was in jeopardy. Tomorrow, I’m certain; they would try and make a move on Sherlock. And if they succeeded with John, they might in all probability succeed with him. Even if that would be highly improbable I still worry about Sherlock’s protection. Now, if we found out ahead of time who this person is who wants John and Sherlock dead, I could order my men to intervene, and you know how upright and highly skilled they are. They’ve done the job for the police several times. And I want both Sherlock and John to find out too, since I’m fairly certain Sherlock would figure it out before all of us. And when that happens, my men would be armed and ready. But I fear police interference would only make these people cover their tracks and disappear out into the wind.”

Greg agreed with Mycroft on some level. He also agreed that right now there was a threat and the only priority was Sherlock and John’s safety. An injured, wailing patient was wheeled right past them on a bed by medical staff and their focus on the topic was cut off momentarily. They looked towards each other again after a brief pause and Mycroft continued: “If _money_ is an issue, then I’m sure we can work something out. I can wire you an amount of your choice in your account by morning. Consider this as, I don’t know, freelance detective work.”

Greg scoffed at his last statement, partially insulted. “I don’t want your money Mr. Holmes, that’s not what I was thinking of,” he rebuked. He couldn’t believe Mycroft still thought of him as one of his spotters.

Mycroft looked at him intently. “And yet your financial state is in a crisis after your wife filed for divorce and got custody of your child. Those alimony checks have done a number on you, Detective Inspector. I only wish to help.”

Greg Lestrade frowned and looked sideways, and turned his back towards Mycroft as he was about to walk away. Clearly Mycroft knew everything about his tumultuous personal life, and Greg had no interest to have his pity or his handouts. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder, and whispered: “I’ll do it,” he replied mulishly, “But I don’t want your money. I’ll do it to keep Sherlock safe.”

Mycroft was relieved to hear it and gave a smile. Greg was about to leave when Mycroft expressed behind his back: “Thank you, for doing this detective. I know it must be hard, but right now, you’re the only man that I can trust.” He meant it.

Greg gave a slight nod and turned his head to walk away with the other two detectives standing by the elevator. They left the hospital and Mycroft pulled out his phone to text Lestrade the unknown phone number _. Message sent._ Mycroft looked down at his feet, contemplating the whole chain of events that happened that night. Mycroft never thought he would hop on someone else’s bike at the drop of a hat and ride alongside his son through the busy streets of London, it was certainly unexpected. He now feared that he gave away too much of his real identity to Sherlock, that he might have made Sherlock suspicious. _Nonsense,_ Mycroft thought. Sherlock was too busy worrying for John’s well-being at the moment. All in all, tonight was the most unusual birthday Mycroft ever had.

 Mycroft slowly walked back towards the room where John lay to get one last glimpse of Sherlock, and looked through the glass window. He saw that Sherlock had dozed off sitting beside John, his head facing downwards as his chin touched the bottom of his neck, all the while gently cupping John’s right hand with his left one. Sherlock didn’t realize how tired he really was, and after the adrenaline rush wore off, his mind instantaneously lost consciousness just like John, brought on by 2 days of insomnia. He held onto John’s hand, as if trying not to drift off for too long to miss out on his friend waking up from his slumber, as if holding him close to make sure he won’t be kidnapped again. Mycroft looked at them both and pursed his lips. He managed to smile a bit before turning around and heading out towards the exit; Sherlock was now perfectly safe with John, the police were stationed right in front of the hospital, and he could finally stop worrying and focus on a more pressing matter in his head.

Downstairs, Mycroft’s driver Javier, who dropped his boss off at 221B, stood in front of the door holding an umbrella. “Your car is waiting for you sir,” he said as Mycroft walked out of the hospital doors and approached him, “here’s your umbrella. You forgot it in the car sir,” he lifted up the umbrella in his hand.

Mycroft looked at it then looked towards him. “Keep it,” he said, “I don’t need it for now. The rain has subsided, but I fear there’s an east wind coming.”

* * *

 

 

The morning sun dried off all the sodden roofs and roads without delay. Sherlock and John rode towards 221B in a taxi, after spending the night at the hospital. John was much better by morning, and even though the doctor wanted to keep him under observation for another night, John insisted he was released and said he felt better. He had no problem with staying but he knew Sherlock hated hospitals. He preferred being near dead people instead of the live, ill, agonized ones. John still remembered Sherlock holding his hand all night; it’s the first thing he noticed when he woke up. John remembered it and smiled a bit while he looked out the window, and Sherlock caught a glimpse of him smiling through the glass reflection. He smiled back and looked away, and their fingers were only centimetres away from each other, longing to touch again.

They reached the flat and climbed out of the taxi, and John knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson looked overjoyed and immediately embraced John and mumbled incessantly; she was worried sick for John ever since the previous night. Sherlock noticed that she might have been taking her glaucoma medicine a bit too much under such stress by the way her eyes looked glassy, and both men entered the flat and locked the door.

Mrs. Hudson had prepared John his favourite Shepherd’s pie and was working on it all morning, and pulled John into her kitchen for a slice or two. John gladly went along with her.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson insisted, “have yourself a nice cuppa and some pie. You look a little weary,” she said, looking at his face with concern.

“Yes. Go on John, I’ll be right with you,” Sherlock replied and headed upstairs. Both of them went inside the kitchen while Sherlock walked up to his room, but suddenly he stopped in front of his door.

There was an envelope stuck on the bottom gap of the door, half in half out. Somebody left it that way, and from that distance he could see the letters “To Sherl...” peeking out from underneath. He crouched down to pull out the envelope, and stood up to read it. “To Sherlock,” it said. There was no mailing address, no stamp, nothing. Someone must have hand-delivered it. He looked at the stationery. Cheap quality, bought at a gas-station, he reckoned. There were traces of perfume on it. He took a deep breath and sniffed it, but couldn’t make out the brand of the perfume. Versace? No. Chanel? No. He ignored it, but remembered the scent for later reference. He opened the envelope and pulled out the letter inside.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_Oodles of love and heaps of wishes from SAM. So glad you could save John Watson. Your father must be so proud._

Sherlock re-read the letter again and again. He wondered who this “SAM” was. He tried to focus, he dived into his mind-palace to remember but he could not remember any Sam. He realized that whoever this was, he/she was behind John’s kidnapping. And now, this person was taunting him. But why did this SAM mention his father?

Sherlock rushed downstairs yelling _“Mrs. Hudson!”_ several times. Mrs. Hudson almost dropped the slice of pie she was about to serve John, and came out looking dumbfounded.

 _“Mrs. Hudson!”_ Sherlock yelled again after reaching the bottom of the stairs.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked, her voice panicky.

Sherlock lifted the letter in his hand. “This letter, who sent it?”

“What?” she asked, clearly confused.

“This letter!” Sherlock waved it furiously in his hand. “This was on my doorstep. Someone must have delivered it in person. Who was it?”

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asked as he walked out of the kitchen after hearing Sherlock’s loud tone.

“Someone sent us a thank you note,” he handed John the letter. “I believe it’s from your friends from last night.”

John read the letter and looked up towards him, shocked. “I didn’t know about this letter,” Mrs. Hudson confessed, “I _swear_ I had no idea someone left it there. Nobody’s been here since morning.”

Sherlock believed her. Someone must have sneaked in at night or early morning, when Mrs. Hudson was most probably stoned. She wouldn’t even notice anybody enter in that state. Then suddenly, his mind, which was simultaneously trying to figure out who this SAM was, instantly gave him the data he required. He realized who it was.

John looked at Sherlock who seemed to pause midway, lost in his thoughts. “Sherlock, what is it?” John asked, realizing he must have figured something out.

Sherlock looked down and towards Mrs. Hudson. “Sorry but the pie will have to wait Mrs. Hudson,” he said. “Come upstairs John, we need to work on an unsolved case with one of our old clients, Mr. Howard Shilcott.”

* * *

 

 

On the other side, Mycroft took a leave of absence from work. The anti- terrorist bill was about to be signed that very night, and most of his colleagues were busy. He figured they won’t need him that night; the Prime Minister and everyone else in Parliament will be way too occupied with other international leaders and dignitaries. He ran on his treadmill for a bit, all the while thinking about last night’s events. Sherlock and John were now in 221B, as reported by one of his spotters, and no suspicious activity was going on. Mycroft increased the surveillance on their house to 24 hours; he didn’t want to take any more risks. He panted heavily at the strain of running for 20 minutes straight, but did not stop. After 25 minutes, his legs finally aggrieved and Mycroft shut off the treadmill until it slowly came to a halt. Old age was getting to him. He jumped down, lifted up his shirt and checked his stomach, and was happy with the visible results. Just then, his phone buzzed. It was Lestrade. He sat down and huffed, and after catching his breath, he answered the phone, “Detective Inspector, I was expecting you’d call. Did you find out anything?” he said, partly out of breath.

“Yes sir, I did,” Lestrade replied. “It wasn’t easy,” he stressed, “finding out this stuff, especially when I’m keeping it all a secret. Now, I couldn’t trace who this number belonged to, but after pulling some strings I was finally able to locate where the messages originated from.”

“Where?” Mycroft asked.

“At an abandoned factory near Leinster Gardens. There is a group of houses there, unoccupied, and the factory is located just a few kilometres from there.”

Mycroft realized which factory he meant. The owner was once an old-friend. “Now get this,” Lestrade continued, “the building was once a printing press for a newspaper company, but later on it was shut down after the owner committed suicide last year. The company was recently bought by an American businesswoman and the building is now located elsewhere, leaving this one vacant.”

“Who’s the new proprietor?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade said the name of the new owner of the newspaper press and Mycroft froze in his chair. _It couldn’t be_ ; Mycroft assured himself, _it just wasn’t possible_. _No_ , he thought to himself, but didn’t realize he said it out loud. “I can send you the article if you like,” Lestrade tried to give surety.

 He mailed Mycroft the attachment, which was an online article about an old newspaper proprietor shooting himself in the head years ago, leaving his company to the shareholders, and whose shares later on were recently bought by a new American businesswoman who had just arrived to London. She bought it and turned it into a much bigger company in just a few weeks with the help of new investors, and is now one of the powerful elite in London. Her company is now called “SAM Global News”, and Mycroft knew exactly who she was.

“ _Hello_? Mr. Holmes? Are you there?” Lestrade asked after getting no reply for several minutes. Mycroft was at a loss for words after getting a blast from the past.

In 221B Baker Street, Sherlock and John discuss the case of the terrorist network with each other, trying to figure out every angle and every source connected to it. Sherlock figured whoever did this must definitely be linked to the matter, especially after receiving that letter. They both talk about Sherlock’s rats, i.e. his markers; agents, low-lives, people who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded. He told John that five of them were behaving perfectly normally, but the sixth one did something very suspicious. He showed John the footage; this woman boarded a train at one station and disappeared at the next. John said he recognized her, the woman who disappeared after seeing her photograph. Sherlock knew her as well; that was no ordinary citizen but a public figure. This was S.A.M. Sherlock couldn’t deduce how she disappeared off the carriage when the train was in transit; the entire case pattern was too nebulous. And then, out of the blue, Sherlock’s mind placed it all together and he was finally able to figure out how she managed to vanish. It wasn’t her, the entire tube compartment disappeared. The driver must have diverted the train and detached the last carriage. As he and John discussed why the driver detached in the first place, Sherlock suddenly stopped pacing and froze in his path. It all suddenly became clear to him.

“What’s the date today, John?” Sherlock whispered.

“November the... _My God_ ,” John exclaimed quietly.

It was the 5th of November that day, there was an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism bill that very night, and just like Guy Fawkes attempting to assassinate King James I and members of Parliament years ago, the agenda of the terrorist network was crystal clear. The entire tube compartment was the key; Sherlock’s hypothesis was that it was a bomb that would be used to blow up Parliament. And the passenger was a huge part of it.

Sherlock and John contacted train worker Howard Shilcott through Skype and the three men tried to locate where that missing tube compartment could be. Howard sat in his living room wearing his bobble-hat and looked through maps and papers along with the boys. It felt like they were getting nowhere, but when Sherlock mentioned “Sumatra Road”, Howard’s mind suddenly sparked something. He mentioned to the boys that there was an old station down there with its platforms and staircases built, but it all got tied up in legal disputes and the station was never built on the surface.

Sherlock whispered: “It’s right underneath the palace at Westminster.”

“And what’s down there, a bomb?” John asked, mystified.

Sherlock didn’t retort. He walks away in a hurry and John rushes after him. Sherlock’s theory was right.

He immediately called Mycroft’s cell as John tried to hail a taxi in front of 221B. The phone rang, but there was no answer. “Come on, come on, _pick up!_ ” Sherlock yelled angrily as the phone kept ringing. Alternatively, Mycroft sat frozen in his chair, unable to move or speak, his phone vibrating in his hand. After a minute, Mycroft suddenly got pulled back to reality and he looked at his phone. It was Sherlock.

Mycroft shook his head and cleared his throat. He tried to hide his apprehension as he spoke, “Sherlock, what is it?”

“Mycroft, listen! I finally figured out the imminent terror threat. It’s going to happen tonight. At the palace in Westminster, during the vote on the anti-terrorism bill.”

“What’s going to happen?” Mycroft asked as his focus was pulled towards this topic now.

“We don’t know yet. But I’m sure whatever it is, I can stop it,” Sherlock replied with assurance.

“Oh don’t be a hero now, Sherlock,” Mycroft scoffed, “don’t do something you and I would both regret.”

“Oh relax Mycroft!” Sherlock answered back as both men sat in the moving cab. “That is not why I called you, I believe whoever this underground terrorist network involves, one particular woman is majorly connected to it.”

“And who is that?” Mycroft asked.

“Magnusson,” Sherlock replied, and Mycroft’s face went pale. “Silvia Augustus Magnusson.”

* * *

 

 

When Lestrade told Mycroft that it was Silvia Magnusson, once known as Silvia Jennings, that bought the company, he was baffled. It was something he never expected to hear. Ever since Silvia left, he tried every means possible to contact her. He called her family and friends, anyone she might have known but everybody’s answer was the same. Nobody knew where she went and in fact, nobody even knew her that well. In the midst, Mycroft distanced himself from Sherlock since he was a child, who was a curious lad as he grew up. He always asked questions, he always wanted to know more, he always created a fuss around the house, and most importantly, he _always_ looked up to Mycroft. He wanted to grow up and become like him, tall, intelligent and someone who seemed very superior to him, especially when he was a little kid. He always ran around asking Mycroft to play with him, to teach him things, but Mycroft always seemed disinterested. On the contrary, he was somewhat harsh to him whenever little Sherlock disturbed him in his room. “Go away Sherlock!” Mycroft yelled most of the time when there was an eager knock on the door from Sherlock, asking him to play deductions, or something else, and after a few minutes Mycroft could see the wounded silhouette underneath of a little boy giving up and slowly walking away from the door. Mycroft didn’t know why he behaved in such way towards his son, perhaps he still did not recover from Silvia’s abandonment and took it out on Sherlock. He realized the gravity of his mistake, as Sherlock slowly started disregarding him too as he grew up, becoming moodier and lonelier and far more erudite than Mycroft himself, brought on by years of bullying and negligence and ridicule Sherlock faced alone because of his astuteness, which Mycroft did not save him from. Slowly but surely Mycroft was reduced to neither a brother nor a father, but a distant unwanted relative in Sherlock’s eyes, and soon enough when Sherlock got into drugs for the first time, Mycroft realized what he had lost.

He blamed Silvia for it, for everything, for filling his heart with contempt, and later making him lose the only good thing in his life.

He grew more powerful after a few years at his job, his influence getting stronger and his reach getting wider. Soon he used the resources at hand and tracked down Silvia, and finally one day he got information about her and her father. Silvia’s father, Augustus Jennings, worked with North Korea in secret while being employed in the British Secret Service. He had sold several state secrets to the country surreptitiously without anyone’s knowledge, and the day his deception was out, he realized it was time to flee the country. In order to escape unavoidable jail time, which would’ve been more than 20 years; he took his daughter and ran off to Panama, and the trail ran cold there. Mycroft couldn’t find any more information on her, but he kept working. Years later, he found out that Silvia was now an established businesswoman, living in America, while her father’s whereabouts were unknown. He wondered whether he should go and meet her, to finally give her a piece of his mind. But, he chose otherwise. He decided it would be best not to invite her back into his life, which would open doors between him and Sherlock that Mycroft wanted to remain forever closed. He had tried his level best to mend things with Sherlock, and after years of methodical repair Sherlock was finally starting to trust and value Mycroft, and he was not about to lose it all again.

Now when Sherlock uttered her name on the phone, and said he found out concrete proof that she was linked to the terrorist network, Mycroft’s only reaction was panic since he knew that Sherlock would inadvertently cross paths with her.

“Now Sherlock, listen to me very carefully,” Mycroft began, his tone changing from casual to meticulous, “I need you to let me handle Magnusson. You can take care of the rest, but do not go after her.”

Sherlock’s interest was suddenly peaked at Mycroft’s change of tone. “Is that so?” he challenged. “And what importance is she to you?”

“Magnusson is not your business,” Mycroft countered.

“Oh, so you mean she’s yours?” Sherlock retorted. John looked at him as the cab rode on, clearly there was a petty debate going on between both of them, _again_ , he assumed.

“If you go against Magnusson, you’ll find yourself going against me,” Mycroft replied as austerely as he could.

“Alright, I’d let you know if I notice,” Sherlock answered, sounding apathetic. “Now, what else? Oh yes, let me go do your job for you while you tend to your masters. _Goodbye Mycroft._ ”

Sherlock hung up. Mycroft closed his eyes and silently groaned. Sherlock, as expected, did not listen to him. He would do what he felt like, and ultimately that would lead him to his real mother, Silvia. Mycroft felt helpless, like in that instant he truly did not know how to protect Sherlock from the truth. His expression was of panic and despair, as he sat there alone; unaware of what he must do next.

And suddenly, like an epiphany, he realized the only thing he must do. He must put an end to all of this. He must dig deep inside and find out what Silvia’s true motives were of returning to London and planning an attack.

Just then, he could hear the faint clicking of heels on the floorboard getting closer and Anthea entered his room in a rush. “Sir, there is someone here to see you.”

Mycroft was in no interest to meet any of his colleagues at that moment. “Tell them I’m busy.”

“Sir its Detective Inspector Lestrade, and he says it’s urgent.”

Mycroft got up from his chair. “Send him in,” he replied, and Anthea went outside and returned with Greg. “Leave us,” Mycroft ordered and Anthea silently left the room and closed the door.

“You weren’t answering your call,” Greg began, “and I got slightly worried.”

“And for that you came running to my house?” Mycroft asked suspiciously, taking a sip of water from his bottle.

“Well, no not exactly... Well you disappeared on me and I had to tell you one more thing,” Greg replied.

“What was it?” Mycroft asked.

Lestrade looked away, slowly pacing about the room. “Well, I got curious about this Magnusson woman, and so I did a little bit more digging, and I found some more... well, some more stuff.”

“Go on,” Mycroft urged, realizing Greg already knew.

Greg told him all he could find out about her, how she and Mycroft apparently attended the same school, about her father’s conviction, about how they both fled the country, and how they ended up in Panama, and where she delivered a baby boy in the local hospital.

Mycroft didn’t respond to anything. He simply leaned his back against the wall, bottle in hand and stared at Greg and Greg stared back at him. “Now, I’m not saying anything I don’t know, but... is there... something you would like to say to me?”

Mycroft remained silent.

“You can trust me, Mr. Holmes, you know you can,” Greg reassured him. Both men stood a few distance from each other, but now Mycroft approached him, and stood closer to Greg. He tried to speak.

“Sherlock is not my brother, Greg. He is my son,” he finally admitted. Greg looked directly at him, his suspicions proven true, but he did not respond. He dropped the file he carried in his hand on the table.

“This is all I could find out about Silvia Magnusson,” Greg finally responded, not reacting in any way to Mycroft’s confession. “Apparently she changed her surname after getting married for the fourth time. All her husbands are dead, mysteriously.”

Mycroft smiled at him, impressed by his discretion. “Thank you Greg, I already know everything there is to know about her.”

“So, what’re you going to do with this information, Mr. Holmes? What are you going to do about Magnusson?”

“Call me Mycroft, please,” he said and Greg was somewhat surprised to hear it. “I’m finally going to do something I should have done years ago. I’m going to put an end to all this.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow,” Greg asked, confused.

“I’m going to meet Silvia, face to face, alone. And I’m going to find out what her motive is of coming back to my life, and trying to ruin my son’s life.”

Greg’s eyes widened. “But... that’s too risky!” he exclaimed. “I strongly suggest you don’t go to meet her alone. This woman is _dangerous_ , and I’m pretty sure she had everything to do with John’s attempted... well... incineration.”

“Of that I have no doubt inspector, trust me,” Mycroft agreed, “but I believe if I go there with protection I’m pretty sure she won’t show up. She’s too smart for that. So I must go alone.”

Greg tried to say something but Mycroft waved his hand to cut him off. “Now, if you’ll excuse me inspector I have an important call to make. I have to set up an appointment to meet Silvia, once again, and I must do it by tonight. You don’t have to worry about me Greg, focus on Sherlock right now. He and John are now following a possible lead to a terrorist threat. It sounds far more important than me meeting some newspaper proprietor. He might call you when he needs you, and you must go and help him, with maximum back-up.”

Mycroft smiled at him for one last time, and walked away. Greg turned his head around. “Mycroft,” he whispered, “what about you? What if, what if something happens to you?” he asked, genuinely concerned.

Mycroft turned to look at him. “In any case, if something were to happen to me, ever, I’ve got an excellent replacement lined up.” He smirked.

“Be careful,” Greg said finally, feeling uneasy about Mycroft’s decision to go alone.

Mycroft smiled and put his hand on Greg’s shoulder. “I will, my friend. Take care of my son.” He was gone, and Greg exhaled noisily. He had a bad feeling about this.

* * *

 

 

Mycroft walked on a lonely path near Leinster Gardens with his umbrella in hand, walking along the turning that brought him close to No. 23-24 empty houses of Leinster Gardens; he passed by them and soon after he finally stopped in front of an old abandoned warehouse. There was graffiti and broken glass windows all over, it had been vandalized and used as a crack-house by many drug addicts after it was closed. The gates were usually bound by a lock on a chain, but tonight it was open. Meth-heads usually broke into the place ignoring the “private property” sign, but tonight it was no drug addicts or vandals that left the place open for Mycroft. He knew what waited him inside.

Soon after Greg left, Mycroft came back, got dressed and asked Anthea to make a call to SAM Global News. Magnusson’s assistant Janine answered the call, and said that her boss was busy in a meeting. Mycroft simply asked her to give her boss a message.

“Tell her Mike called. Give her this message from me: _‘Vatican Cameos.’_ ”

An hour later, Mycroft received a text which explained nothing but to meet him there in the warehouse at precisely 8pm, alone. Finally, Mycroft heaved a sigh. Finally he would have the answers that were left unanswered for a long time.

It was 8pm by now, and Mycroft entered the premises half-confident. On the other side, Sherlock and John were walking rapidly inside Westminster Station. Sherlock opens a maintenance entrance with a crowbar and both men start to walk down into the maintenance tunnels. John wanted to call the police but Sherlock said they would only get in the way. They climbed down steep metal ladders and finally they reach the platform of Sumatra Road station. Sherlock was absolutely sure that the tube was carrying a bomb. They point their flashlights toward the tracks but there was no sign of a train carriage. Confused, Sherlock closes his eyes and enters his mind palace, trying to locate the tube carriage. He imagines himself sitting inside the carriage alone, when all of a sudden a huge ball of fire engulfs him. The explosion then spreads, reaches up and forces itself through various air vents inside the houses of Parliament. Within seconds, the entire palace of Westminster blows up in a gargantuan explosion.

“OH!” Sherlock exclaims as he opens his eyes. He jumps off the end of the platform onto the tracks and starts running, John rushing behind him.

Finally, the carriage was located near a gentle bend, Sherlock looks at it and looks up, and John points his flashlight and looks towards where Sherlock was looking at. The large open vent that Sherlock visualized in his mind was there, and it was rigged with several explosions.

Taking a deep breath, John points his flashlight and looks down to check the underside and Sherlock looks sideways. They both climb in through the driver’s cab and walk towards the carriage. Surprisingly, it looks empty. No bomb. John was staggered as well as relieved when he saw it, but Sherlock couldn’t be fooled that easily. He already spotted a pair of intertwined black and red cables strung along the wall and down to one of the seat backs. He walks forward and lifts the cushion up from the seat, and John approaches with his flashlight to get a better look at it.

“This is the bomb,” Sherlock whispered calmly.

“What?” John replied, looking down at the box of wired explosives underneath the seat.

“It’s not carrying explosives. The whole compartment is the bomb,” Sherlock said agitatedly.

John inhaled deeply and gasped. Panic-stricken, John and Sherlock lift the rest of the seat cushions up to reveal the other identical explosives under them. They were now surrounded by explosives that would blow them sky-high.

* * *

 

 

Mycroft stood inside the warehouse alone, looking around him. There was no presence of anybody else except him, the cold, dark, dilapidated state of the room made his skin crawl. There were dirty mattresses and torn couches at the far end of the room, and the high roof had several holes through which the moonlight sneaked and pierced the dusty ground. Mycroft was certain she was there somewhere, waiting. He knew her character well; meeting her for a few months years ago gave him all the data he required, obsessing about her for years gave him the advantage to predict any element of surprise. Mycroft tried to breathe in the room but failed to trace any particular scent; the stench of the room was covered in several faded odours. But his ears suddenly caught the faint sounds of heels clicking and nearing behind him.

Mycroft turned around. The footsteps stopped when he did. Mycroft tried to look who it was, but the person stood far away from him covered in shadows. Mycroft didn’t have to second guess who it was.

“After so, many, years,” Mycroft finally began, choosing every word he uttered, contemplating every move he made, “I never thought you would actually remember that reference.”

The figure did not respond. It just stood there, in the dark, its feminine silhouette slanted towards the left side of her feet. It seemed she was simply staring at him, reading him, understanding him, focusing on his pressure points, trying to figure out if he was the same Mycroft he was 36 years ago. Mycroft stared back towards the shadows, knowing she was still the same intelligent, unpredictable, intimidating girl she once was and hasn’t changed. He had figured out her moves in several scenarios the moment he heard her name.

“Silvia Augustus Magnusson,” Mycroft resumed, stressing on every word, then letting out a faint chuckle, “I admit it’s got a nice ring to it.”

The figure kept staring. She felt immovable, like a statue in the dark with an open gaze and no emotions. And finally, she slowly paced forward, revealing herself.

“Vatican Cameos,” Silvia finally spoke, partly out of the shade, her voice seductive with a resonant bass and low baritone, until she was finally clear for Mycroft to see. “Of course I remember it; it’s what I used to yell at you whenever I saw any bullies approaching. How can I _ever_ forget that,” she smiled.

Mycroft could finally see what the older Silvia looked like in person. She saw her photos, her composure granite and her clothes always professional, appearing in tabloids and even in security cameras when Mycroft traced her. But to see her in person was a completely different experience for him. She looked somewhat the same, except that childlike innocence was gone and was replaced by a cold, stony expression and blank eyes. Her face was pale and matured, her fine lines and wrinkles partially visible from a distance, her shirt was white and her blazer and skirt were black. She wore high black heels and her hair was still luscious and curly, with a few visible greys peaking hither and thither. She looked at Mycroft with an icy stare and it seemed like she wasn’t blinking at all.

Mycroft did not turn his gaze away from her eyes. “Yes, of course, how could you?” he retorted. “It’s not as petty as forgetting one’s son on somebody else’s doorstep.”

Silvia sniggered a little and walked sideways, still staring. She then looked away, and then said, “You’re still holding that against me? That was years ago! I thought you must’ve forgotten.”

“It’s a little hard to forget once you put a live person in that equation.”

“Ahh yes,” Silvia walked back and forth and kept talking, “ _Sherlock Holmes_ , was it?” she asked deploringly. “Is that the name you and your silly little parents gave him? Huh, that’s _funny_.” Her tenor was vicious.

Mycroft ignored it, before he lost his nerve. “And what about you? When did you become Silvia Magnusson from Silvia Jennings?” he asked, twisting his umbrella in his hand.

“After my fourth marriage,” Silvia replied, still pacing sideways leisurely, occasionally looking up. “He was vile and boring and he snored. Kept me up all night. Finally, I couldn’t take his snoring anymore and smothered him with a pillow.” She gently smirked, her grin wide with menace in her air and stopped midway, facing him straight. “But you already knew that, didn’t you?” her voice grew deeper and more ominous.

Mycroft smiled back. “Obviously. It wasn’t hard. Every single one of your husbands dying, you inheriting everything, growing richer by the hour, you did manage to cover your tracks, I’ll give you that. But not from me, sadly.”

“That’s not very _threatening_ , Mike,” Silvia calmly replied. “Well, you’re you, whatever you are, your _smartness_ and _skills_ can only harm me so far. Your knowledge of my wrongdoings never seemed to cause me any damage, luckily because your only drawback is _sentiment_. Knowledge is power, and yet I have nothing to fear because, no matter how much jeopardising information you have on me you would never use it against me, because of what you, _felt_ , of what you still _feel_ for me. Fortunately for me, you’re the only one of your kind.”

“Unfortunately for you, _Silvia_ , there are two of us,” Mycroft replied without losing his sense of composure.

Silvia smiled. “Yes, that. _Our son._ Therein lies the major problem. I always thought you would abandon him, leave him be, it was quite surprising to see you raise him as your own family.” She said those words like she didn’t have any emotions about her son at all. She was already disconnected from emotions, and now only a ghost, a shark floating on the surface, remained.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Mycroft countered.

“Don’t I?” Silvia snapped. She took a few steps forward. “Well I guess you are right. I don’t know _anything_. I don’t know about your parents raising him as their own, I didn’t know about you disregarding him throughout his childhood, I didn’t know that, to stop him from bothering you during your studies you bought him a dog whom he later named Redbeard, I didn’t know that you killed the dog after he got cancer, I didn’t know about Sherlock’s drug use, I didn’t know about his several arrests, I didn’t know about your job at the British Secret Service as an undercover agent, I didn’t know about John Watson, I didn’t know about the Bruce Partington plans, I didn’t know about Irene Adler and her escape from death, if I may add, all thanks to Sherlock,” Silvia paused to savour the look of surprise on Mycroft’s face, and continued, “I didn’t know about you and your brother’s plan to stop Moriarty, I didn’t know about John’s misery, and I certainly didn’t know about Sherlock’s recent escape from a Serbian prison, all thanks to you. You are absolutely right. I don’t... know... _anything_.”

Mycroft stopped breathing for a few seconds. It was not just him who knew everything about her. “Like I said Mike, and like I _always_ have said ever since we were teens, Knowledge is power,” she replied and gleamed.

“Impressive,” Mycroft eventually replied. “But I don’t understand this, why are you here, exactly? Why are you back in London?” he asked intriguingly, standing up straight. “And why did you attack John Watson last night? What interest is he to you?”

Silvia folded her hands behind her back and eagerly responded: “That was just a trial run, Mike. To see if I’ve got it right.”

“Got _what_ right?”

“The information I had, _of course_. On both of you. You see, everyone has their own _pressure points_. One thing that could bring about their downfall. My informant notified me that Sherlock, our little trouble-maker’s pressure point is his best friend John Watson, and your pressure point is your junkie detective son, and I wanted to see if she was right. She _was_ ,” Silvia said, sounding proud.

Mycroft inhaled deeply and let it out. “And who was this informant, if I might ask?”

“Oh you don’t know? Funny, I thought you knew everything. It’s amazing what one chooses to miss when it’s right in plain sight. You’ve met her too,” Silvia replied scornfully.

Mycroft wondered who it was. And then it finally clicked. “ _Mary Morstan,_ of course,” he replied as he finally deduced it.

Silvia let out a laugh. “Yes, Mary. Well, _Moran_ , to be exact. Sebastianne Moran. Handy woman, I met her in America you know. Freelance assassin, well, you already know that part.”

Mycroft couldn’t believe his ears. And yet, his suspicions of Mary being dangerous for John and Sherlock were proven true. He paused and asked again: “And what is it I hear about you being a part of a terrorist network? What is your agenda, Silvia? What _do you_ want?”

Silvia grinned as widely as she could and regained her furtive composure. “My agenda is simple, Mike. I’m not a terrorist. My motives are not religious, nor am I driven with vengeance. Neither was my father. But nobody listened to him, instead, they crucified him. And for what? Trying to make a profit? For doing that he was condemned, for that he had to flee, for that he was driven into alcoholism, for that he eventually died a painful death.” Silvia took a deep breath, and Mycroft gave her a crooked grin. “It’s fascinating listening to the ramblings of a woman _not_ driven by vengeance,” he mocked.

Silvia’s expression did not change. “Like I said, Mycroft, I’m not a villain, I’m a businesswoman. This thing, which is going to happen tonight, it would grant me a lot of profit you see. I did not partake in it, I simply invested.”

“I still don’t understand,” Mycroft responded.

“And there’s the back of the t-shirt,” Silvia laughed, and Mycroft frowned. “You see, Mike, my employer is a big fan of our son.”

“Your employer?”

“Yes!” Silvia exclaimed. “You didn’t think I carried out this whole thing alone, did you? I mean I’m powerful, yes, but I needed the right connections. And my employer granted me all of it. All I needed to do was to invest in his plan. So I did. And he asked me to do one more thing, to prove my loyalty. And said, if I actually was successful in doing it, he promised me something I couldn’t say no to. More power.”

“What did he ask you to do?” Mycroft asked severely, growing impatient by the minute.

“I’m doing it right now, _Mike_ ,” she replied frostily, stepping closer. “I’m going to kill our son.”

* * *

 

 

The weather seemed particularly cool that evening, and in a hotel room at the far end of London the windows were left open letting in a gentle breeze, and the television was switched to the news channel where the newsreader talked about the terrorism bill about to be signed that night, and that the MPs were making their way into the Chamber by that time to vote on it. Mary Morstan, aka Sebastianne Moran was lying on her bed in the hotel room watching the news when she abruptly changed the channel. She sat there occasionally looking at her watch, waiting to make her move at the precise moment.

She suddenly gets up after looking at her watch one last time, and lifts the briefcase on her bedside table and places it onto the bed. As she opens it, it reveals to be a detonator of some sorts- designed for large bombs- and had a small screen, a slot for a key, a number pad and a small button. Moran looked at the box, patiently waiting for a few moments.

On the other side at the tracks at Sumatra Road Station, John and Sherlock lift up all the seat cushions inside the tube carriage to reveal the small bombs attached underneath them. A few minutes later, Sherlock stops and takes a few steps towards the aisle, realizing one of the floor panels were loose. He lifts the panel up, only to reveal a gigantic bomb underneath, it’s mass larger than all the other bombs surrounding them both. John walks forward and looks down at it, and inhales and exhales nervously whilst Sherlock doesn’t react, his face stricken with fright. As both of them look down at the bomb and then look towards each other, John says, breathing nervously: “We need bomb disposal.”

“There may not be time for that now,” Sherlock replies, his expression desperately trying to mask the perplexity and trepidation.

John tries to calm down, and asks: “So, what do we do?”

Sherlock pauses. After a moment, he vacantly replies: “I have no idea.”

“Well, think of something!” John counters sternly.

Sherlock looks up towards him, eyes wide. “Why’d you think _I know_ what to do?”

“Because you’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re as clever as it gets,” John reminded him.

“Doesn’t mean I know how to defuse _a giant bomb_ ,” Sherlock emphasises, “What about you?”

“I wasn’t in bomb disposal. I’m a _bloody_ doctor,” John snaps.

“And a _soldier,_ as you keep reminding us all!” Sherlock replies heatedly pointing his torch at John.

John sighs and looks at the timer, currently frozen at 2:30 minutes. “Can’t... Can’t we rip the timer off, or something?” he asks frantically.

“That would set it off,” Sherlock retorts.

“You see! You know things!” John states irritably, already panicking. Sherlock looks away, noiselessly whimpering.

In her hotel room, Sebastianne Moran enters the code number 051113 onto the number pad and inserts a key into its slot and turns it, activating the device. She smiles, and then reaches the little button on the side and presses it, triggering the biggest attack the UK will ever experience.

Inside the tube carriage, without warning, all of the lights turn on, and the gigantic bomb between Sherlock and John starts its countdown. 2:30...2:29...2:28... the clock ticks. Both Sherlock and John have unmistakable panic on their faces. John groans and exclaims, “Oh my God!” and breathes heavily. Sherlock paces here and there around the bomb, clearly at a loss.

“Why didn’t you call the police?!” John exclaimed loudly.

“Please just...”

 _“Why do you never call the police?!”_ John continues to scream, cutting Sherlock off mid-sentence.

“Well... It’s no use now,” Sherlock replies naively, clearly as terrified as John was.

John’s anger increases. “So you _can’t_ switch the bomb off? You can’t switch the bomb off and you _didn’t_ call the police,” he verbalizes angrily and paces away from Sherlock all over the place.

Sherlock pauses for a moment or two. The countdown was at 2:15 now. He looks at John, his eyes piercing and teary, and asserts firmly: “Go, John. Go, now.” He points his finger towards the exit, and John looks at him.

“There’s no _point_ now, is there? Because there’s not enough time to get away; and if we don’t do this,” he points his hands down to the giant bomb, “Other people will _die_!”

Sherlock exhales noisily. John was right; there was no other way. And then, out of the blue, John looks up at him and points at him as he utters: “Mind Palace.”

“Hmm?”

John utters again steadily: “Use your Mind Palace.”

“How will that help?!” Sherlock exclaims.

“Because you’ve salted away every fact _under the sun_!” John contends.

“Oh, and you think I’ve got “How to defuse a bomb” _tucked away_ in there somewhere?” Sherlock questions sarcastically.

“YES!”

Sherlock starts to think. “Maybe,” he responds, and closes his eyes to concentrate. His hands flick about next to his head, and his eyes quiver restlessly underneath his eyelids as he concentrates relentlessly. He mumbles gibberish as his mind aggressively tries to focus, and John looks at him edgily. “Think!” he kept pressing on to Sherlock to drive him to the conclusion faster. Sherlock grunts and his eyebrows squint, his forehead creases and finally, he gives up and lets out a loud cry. He opens his eyes and looks at John with a vacant and remorseful look on his face. John stares at him incredulously.

“OH MY GOD!!!” John screams and lifts his hands up in the air, and Sherlock shreds his scarf off his neck and kneels down towards the giant bomb, trying to figure out some miraculous way to shut it off, incessantly mumbling and groaning and flailing over the device. John simply paces in panic and extreme fear, trying to face the situation.

“This is it,” John says as he accepts his fate, while Sherlock was still thrashing at the bomb, looking here and there trying to defuse it, but clearly failing. “Oh my God,” John whispers as the reality of the conclusion finally dawns on him. He now looks at Sherlock, who had stopped flailing by now.

Sherlock lifts his head up to look at John; his expression was of both devastation and guilt. “I’m sorry,” he apologises delicately.

John hears it and closes his eyes to look away. _He did not just say that_ , he thought. “What?” he vaguely stated.

“Please John, forgive me...” he continues as he joins his hands together, “for all the hurt that I caused you.”

John tries not to accept what was happening. “No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. This is a trick.”

“No.”

“Another one of your _bloody tricks_ ,” John continued.

“No.”

“You’re just trying to make me something nice.”

“Not this time,” Sherlock chuckles dimly.

“It’s just to make you look good even though you behaved like a...” John chokes, trying to fight the tears that fought to get out, and looks away to catch his breath and Sherlock gets up and sits on one of the seats, sighing. John looks down and stomps his feet, and finally speaks.

“I wanted you not to be dead,” his voice was as low as it could possibly be.

“Yeah well, be careful what you wish for,” Sherlock replies. John heaves a sigh, finally yielding and letting out his emotions. There was no point fighting them back, and since they only had a minute or two left to live, he might as well say it all before it’s too late. Sherlock looked like he was on the verge of crying as he put his fist over his mouth.

“Look, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff,” John silently confesses.

“Yeah, I know,” Sherlock agrees.

John tries to speak but his voice seemed like it was knotted by fear and extreme anxiety. He whispers silently and sniffles, his voice fleeting: “You were the best and the wisest man, that I have ever known,” he speaks, trying to hold back tears, “and yes of course I forgive you.”

Sherlock looks at him right away with his eyes wide, tears escaping from the corner. He couldn’t believe it; John finally said the words he wished to hear. But John wasn’t finished there. “The only thing... the only thing that kept me alive these two years... was the foolish hope, the faintest inkling that you were alive somewhere, that you faked the whole thing. It’s what kept me afloat.” His voice started breaking, and Sherlock stood up and walked beside him, trying to console him. “John it’s okay you don’t have to...”

“No, but I need to,” John replied, his tears giving up trying to stay in his eyes. “I _need_ to tell you this Sherlock, I need to tell you that... the moment you walked back into my life at that restaurant when I was with Harry, the moment you reappeared again, I didn’t care about anything else. I didn’t care why you did it, what your motives were for doing it; I didn’t care about _any_ of that. My heart restarted that very moment you came back. That is all I ever wanted Sherlock. I wanted you back with me. Because...”

John paused; trying to utter the right words but failing, and Sherlock takes a step closer. “John,” Sherlock silently whispers, and John closes his eyes and sinks his head down. He shakes his head and speaks again: “What I’m trying to say is... What I mean is, I wanted you to come back to me. Because...” he fails again, about to break down.

Sherlock moves in closer, and now they were only inches away from one another. John didn’t look up as he breathed heavily, on the brink of breaking down. Sherlock put his right hand on John’s cheek, trying to lift his head up to look at him. “John, it’s okay, I understand. You don’t have to say it,” Sherlock smiled and whispered, his eyes fairly red. “You wanted me back because you missed me.”

John finally whispers: “No. Not that,” he opens his eyes, “I wanted to back because, _I love you,_ Sherlock, and I never got to say it to your face.”

Sherlock’s smile faded. He was astounded, he stopped blinking and his mind shut down completely. The only thing he heard now was his heart, thundering rapidly. His nerves jolted, and he was immediately taken aback and he drew in a deep breath. “I love you, Sherlock, I always have. It had been clear as day to me, since the beginning,” John continues, smiling amidst rolling tears.

Sherlock let go of John’s face. He tried to envisage what people normally do at this point, but his mind went utterly blank. And he then realized, he did not have to predict what he should do next; he knew what he should do next.

Sherlock took John’s face with both hands and lowered his head and kissed him on the lips. John’s thin lips seemed frozen for a moment or two, but afterwards they parted and gave into the sensation of Sherlock’s soft, supple orifice. The feeling was mesmerizing; at that moment nothing mattered, everything just felt right. Sherlock gently pressed his lips against John’s and breathed in, taking in John’s scent. John kissed and tasted Sherlock’s bottom lip, and few seconds later he broke the kiss, his eyes still closed. Sherlock and John both open their eyes together, and as they look into each other John gave him a warm smile. Sherlock returned the smile, gently kissing him in the forehead, and silently mumbles: “Oh John, you always _are_ full of surprises.” John chuckled nervously and buried his head into Sherlock’s chest, clinging onto his back. Sherlock smiled and hugged him back, wrapping his hands around John’s back and head and closing his eyes; he gently buries his nose into John’s tiny hairs, savouring the moment. Love is not a concept he is familiar with, but it looks like love was certainly something he now values more than anything else.

John opens his eyes and looks towards the giant bomb underneath, ticking away to zero. He grabs handfuls of Sherlock’s coat on his back as he gasps, breathing louder. He wasn’t afraid. The man he loved was in his arms right now, and he accepted the impending death that lied ahead, head on, without any regrets.

* * *

 

 

Silvia looked at Mycroft with a malevolent grin as she spoke those words. Mycroft retained his composure, but for a second even he was taken aback. The shock was visible; he couldn’t believe Silvia had degraded this low. She was heartless, that was a fact, but to actually have no moral conscience, to be detached this much, is something Mycroft never anticipated. He just looked at her, his poker-faced expression hiding his disgust, and said:

“Many people have already tried killing Sherlock, my dear Silvia, and _all of them_ have miserably failed.”

“Yes, they have, all thanks to you,” Silvia responded, “You’ve always been there for him, saving him, protecting him, what a good fake brother you are,” she scoffed. “Is it guilt? Guilt for blaming him for your issues? For abandoning him for most of his childhood?” She squinted her eyes. “But tonight you’re not there, you’re here, with me, and he’s about to be blown up _sky high._ Along with the _rest_ of those fools in Westminster. England will pay Mike; it will pay for what it did to my father.”

Mycroft breathed out loudly and grinned slightly. “Once again you are mistaken, Silvia. It’s not me who saves him. It never was. I simply looked out for Sherlock. The only thing keeping him safe, the only person who always saves him is John. Till the very end _John_ is the only one who would pull him out of the very depths of hell, and no amount of danger or bombs or bullets can kill my son, for John would _never_ leave his side.”

“Yes, my employer told me about him,” Silvia sighed, “quite the loyal pet, isn’t he? Well then, tonight even he would die alongside him, such a pity.”

“You will never succeed,” Mycroft stated callously.

“Maybe,” Silvia started treading slowly yet again, left and right at a snail’s pace. “I even put that factor into the equation. In that case, doesn’t matter. I’ll try again, _and_ again, _and_ again. Until he finally gives up and dies.”

“I will _never_ let that happen,” Mycroft said in a rigorous pitch, “Trust me on this, Silvia, if there is even a scratch on my son, _ever_ , I will bring down the _entire wrath_ of my influence upon you,” his voice unyielding as he walked towards her, standing only inches away from her face now, and she stopped pacing to face him head-on while he continued, “I will make sure the entire British Government, the Secret Service and even the _bloody CIA_ would make you their only priority, and when they get their hands on you, you would _beg them_ to kill you faster. No offence, but neither your company nor your employer would be able to go into battle against me. I will destroy you, from top to bottom. You have my word on that, Sil,” he whispered with a smile.

Silvia looked at him intently. She did not seem frightened, instead she merely smiled. She scanned his face with wonder, and spoke: “ _There_. There he is. _Finally_ ,” she said in a whisper, “There’s the Mycroft I wanted to see. I’m proud of you Mike; you’re not the same frail little boy anymore. You’re like me. _Distant_ and _vacant_. Admit it,” she stated.

“I’m _nothing_ like you,” Mycroft replied. “Unlike you, I _love_ my son. I can die for him, and you will always have me standing in front of you, between you and Sherlock. _Trust_ _me_ on that,” he assured her.

Silvia sniggered. “I know... Which is why I must do this,” she bluntly said.

Mycroft was puzzled. And then, suddenly, within seconds, he felt it. His ears started to ring and his nerves jolted, like he just heard a very loud noise. He suddenly felt very frail, like his age quadrupled within moments, and all of a sudden he felt like his spine was on fire. His legs could not seem to hold their gravity anymore. His umbrella slipped from his hands and thumped towards the ground.

His face was dazed; he stumbled and took a few steps back and looked at Silvia, whose expression did not seem to have any change at all, while his tremendously did. He looked down at his stomach; there seemed to be nothing, but slowly and surely, a stain started to appear. A small red dot started growing on Mycroft’s shirt which grew bigger and bigger until the entirety of Mycroft’s shirt and vest layering his abdomen was soaked in blood. His back was soaked too; he could feel the burn and the haemorrhage through the exit would behind him where the bullet seemed to have escaped. He touched the blood and his hands were now covered in red, with his own blood, and with despair he looked up towards Silvia, who was holding a gun in her hand, the smoke escaping from the barrel. His vision blurred and he couldn’t focus anymore, and his legs gave away and he fell towards the ground, crashing, his mouth gaping with pain and fear.

He tried not to lose consciousness, not to go into shock. He tried keeping his eyes open, blinking several times while his breath grew more erratic. He moaned and groaned in pain, twitching and turning on the ground trying to get up, but desperately failing. “HELP!” he yelled vociferously, through agonizing pain, “HELP!” he yelled again, but nobody listened. They were in an abandoned area with nobody living nearby. Through one of his ears he could hear the faint clicking of heels coming closer towards his lying figure, and he turned his head to the left, groaning.

Silvia walked towards him, standing tall above him with a vacant look. He pointed her gun straight at Mycroft’s forehead, and Mycroft gulped and blinked, accepting what was about to happen. “You’re the only thing standing between me and my goals, Mike. After you die there is nothing that can stop me. _Nothing_. Not even Sherlock. I mean, I don’t have to kill him; I only have to kill John, like you said. He is the only thing keeping him safe.” She grinned. “And once he is out of the picture, Sherlock would have nothing to live for. Nothing to keep on going. With his dear brother and best friend gone, he will slip back to drugs, and end up destroying himself.” She seemed determined as she pointed her gun at him while Mycroft writhed in pain.

“You... wi... will never... never succeed Silv-

Silvia pressed her right heel on Mycroft’s bullet wound, and Mycroft cried out in anguish. The pain was too much to bear, and he screwed his eyes shut and gnashed his teeth. Silvia straightened her grip, and was about to pull the trigger.

“Goodbye _Mycroft_ ,” she said as he stared at the barrel of the gun, “It honestly was a privilege knowing you. And I’m truly sorry for doing this.”

Mycroft closed his eyes and accepted his fate. “This is it,” he considered. He heard the gunshot and tightened his eyes, gasping louder at the sound. But he didn’t feel anything; rather he heard another sound; a loud thud and the ground shook at bit. Mycroft opened his eyes; astounded to see he was still alive. He tried to lift his head up while still in pain and saw Silvia lying on the ground next to his feet, blood gushing from the back of her head. Behind the shadows, someone else fired their gun towards Silvia and killed her instantly, and now this person came dashing towards Mycroft. He felt someone grabbing his shoulders and tilting his head upwards, gently placing his head on top of their arm while pressing on his wound, all the while mumbling “Oh my God oh my God, No, NO!” several times.

It was a familiar voice. Mycroft opened his eyes and tried to adjust his vision, to see the panic-stricken face of Greg Lestrade, staring at him with tremendous sorrow. “Oh my God!” Greg exclaimed again as he looked at the blood-soaked bullet wound on his stomach, and glanced back at his face.

“Greg? Is that you?” Mycroft whispered, dizzy with blood loss.

“I’m here, _I’m here_ ,” Greg choked as he spoke, the sadness overcoming him little by little, “Oh my God, Mycroft, I’m so sorry this happened. Fuck! I should have gotten here faster. I should’ve been here with you! _Damnit_ ,” he kept cursing to himself, filled with remorse as he looked at Mycroft’s pale fragile figure.

“How did you find me here? How did you know...” Mycroft said and paused, trying to remain conscious.

“I put a tracking device on your coat before I left,” Greg admitted, almost crying. “I also put a microphone, and I did what you asked, I made sure everyone would stay alert for Sherlock to call them, but I couldn’t shake this gut feeling within me, and so I followed you here and parked at a distance, and when I heard the gunshot...” Greg stammered, trying to fight back tears, “when I heard it I came running. I _felt it_! I felt something wrong was going to happen tonight, and _damn_! I should’ve known better, I should’ve gotten here faster; I should’ve been here with you! I’m so... I’m so sorry Mycroft!” he couldn’t hold his tears anymore. He silently wept and Mycroft stared at him, his body almost numb as he couldn’t feel the painful throbbing anymore. He blinked twice with somnolent eyes and gently whispered, “Give me your hand.”

Greg lifted his hand from Mycroft’s wound and clasped his hand, his other hand on Mycroft’s shoulder, gently tilting his head upward. Mycroft widened his stare trying to look at him intently, and he finally spoke, “My dear friend, _none of this_ was your fault. Whatever happened here, it was all because it was meant to be. Don’t blame yourself, detective. You are and shall forever be the greatest friend and most loyal human being I have ever come across, and you being here tonight, with me, is testimony to that.” Mycroft’s voice was tender when he said it and Greg smiled, crying woefully.

“Thank you for everything you have done for me, _dear friend_. I owe you everything,” Mycroft finally said and his eyes were about to shut down, but Greg shook him and he suddenly opened them: “Hey, _hey_ ,” Greg said and Mycroft looked at him, “You don’t owe me anything Mr. Holmes... Mycroft. You have given me the pleasure of your company, and that is all I ever needed. You are the most powerful and heart-warming person I ever met, and nothing can change that,” Greg sobbed.

“Heart-warming?” Mycroft said and laughed quietly.

“The lengths you have gone to save your son, everything you have ever done for him, without asking for anything in return, without even letting Sherlock know the truth, you’re the _greatest father_ that ever lived, Mycroft.”

Mycroft smiled. Greg’s words comforted him, and the pain was now fully gone from his body; he was rid of all sensation. He was suddenly feeling peaceful, like nothing could hurt him anymore. The weight he forever carried around his body and over his shoulders were gone, all the stress and the decisions and the lies and the tensions were slowly fading away and he felt so light that he could float away. The moonlight fell upon his eyes, the ray piercing his face making him see a sliver of luminosity in this despicable darkness, a light at the end of the tunnel. He looked up and smiled; he wasn’t scared anymore. He was finally happy.

“Take good care of my son, Greg,” Mycroft insisted as he clutched Greg’s hand tightly. “Keep him safe, _promise me that_.”

“I _promise_ you,” Greg replied, his face puffy. “You have my word on that. I will give my life to keep him safe.”

Mycroft smiled as he closed his eyes. “Thank you, _my friend_ , thank you, thank you,” he whispered as his voice slowly faded towards the end, and he closed his eyes taking in several deep breaths. At the last breath, he inhaled deeply and paused, and a few seconds later, he let the air escape his lungs, and that was it. He stopped breathing altogether, and Greg panicked. “Mycroft? Mycroft!” his voice cracked. “Mycroft can you hear me?” he shook him several times while repeating his words, but there was no response. Greg couldn’t help but shut his eyes and weep, bowing his head down towards Mycroft’s chest and whimpering. His friend was gone.

But Mycroft wasn’t dead yet. In his final moments, when he only had seconds, an old trifling memory replayed in the deep recesses in his mind. Mycroft opened his eyes to see himself sitting in a chair on the front porch of his house holding a book. It was warm and sunny and he looked around, only to see a young Sherlock running around their garden with his dog, Redbeard. He held a stick in his hand and ran along, while the dog playfully followed him around. Little Sherlock chuckled innocently and fell towards the soft grass, laughing while the dog licked his face. Mycroft stared at both of them and inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of sweet spring and blossoming flowers. As he sat there, smiling, he realized the only thing that was always important to him. It wasn’t money; it wasn’t politics, or knowledge or power. He closed his eyes and grinned, his mind truly at peace.

“I love you, _my son_ ,” he whispered and then there was nothing happening in his mind anymore, it all went black. He was no more.

_That was the end of Mycroft Holmes._

* * *

 

 

As John and Sherlock stood there, holding onto each other, John shut his eyes tightly and blew out a long breath, grasping Sherlock’s coat tighter. He embraced the incoming explosion that would evaporate them, but he wasn’t scared. A few seconds later, he could feel Sherlock’s breath growing erratic on top of his head, and it seemed like he was starting to sob. His best friend was also finally accepting his fate, he contemplated. John held him tighter and Sherlock continued to whimper silently, and what happened next was something John never anticipated.

Sherlock wasn’t sobbing. He slowly let go of John, walking inches away from him, and he turns around, howling with laughter. John opens his eyes at the sound to look at him, and was stunned to see him giggling in high-pitched amusement. He then looks down at the timer of the bomb, and was shocked to see that it was stuck at 1:29. He turns away in disbelief, about to burst in anger. Before, when Sherlock was flailing towards the bomb, faking his panicked state, he located the small switch on the side of the bomb and flicked it, disarming the bomb completely. He grinned and later faked his whole desperate flustered state, only to make John confess his true feelings for Sherlock. Better now than never, he assumed.

John looks at him incredulously and is about to yell at him. “You...” he tries but fails, shaking in anger, while Sherlock laughs till he cries.

“Oh your face!” he points towards John, laughing hysterically.

“...utter...”

Sherlock couldn’t stop laughing. “Your face!” he giggles. “I totally had you!” he continues.

“You cock! I knew it! I knew it! You f...” John screams and stammers in annoyance. He couldn’t believe that Sherlock made him think they were dying. He was about to pounce on him.

“Oh those things you said... such sweet things! I- I never knew you cared,” Sherlock pulls John’s leg.

John glares at him and mutters: “I will kill you if you ever breathe a word of this...”

“Scout’s honour,” Sherlock grins.

John continues: “To anyone! YOU KNEW! You knew how to turn it off!”

“Ahh!” Sherlock mutters, and points towards the bomb, “There’s an off switch.”

“What?”

“There’s always an off switch,” Sherlock said, “Terrorists can get into _all_ sorts of problems unless there’s an off switch.”

“So why’d you let me go through all that?” John retorts tightly.

“I didn’t lie altogether!” Sherlock replies, grinning. “I’ve absolutely no idea how to turn these silly little lights off.” He chuckles and wipes his tears off, and continues: “And also I needed you to admit you forgave me, to admit your true feelings.”

John stared at Sherlock furiously, while he stared back in amusement. “Come here,” he said and approached John. “No don’t touch me,” John backed away a bit angrily, and Sherlock laughed harder. He rushed and embraced John tightly, wrapping his arms around him, while John stood rigidly, non-reactive.

“I’m _definitely_ gonna kill you,” John mumbled furiously through the nape of his neck. Sherlock smiled. “Oh please! Killing me... that was so two years ago,” he chuckled, and moments later John, despite being angry, nervously let out a giggle. Despite everything, he was glad to be alive and not blown up, and he was glad Sherlock was with him, no matter how big of a jerk he was. “Oh yes, and I love you too, John Watson,” Sherlock replies gleefully, and John couldn’t help but let out a nervous chuckle. He raised his arms to hug him back, both of them laughing while Sherlock touched his hair.

John looks towards the open driver’s cab to notice the walkie-talkie picking up voices of police nearing and could see the flashlights approaching. Several officers were walking towards the carriage with flashlights on their rifles, and John looks at them and exclaims: “And you _did_ call the police!”

“Of course I called the police!” Sherlock retorts and lets out a nervous laughter. He texted Greg on the way to the station without John even noticing, who then sent the entire Scotland Yard towards them for back-up. Like Mycroft asked him to. Sherlock lets go of John and smirks at him, who can’t help but let out an awkward chuckle. Sherlock laughs and greets a few of the officers who head inside, and assures them that the bomb is unarmed. Sherlock shows them where the bomb was, and bomb disposal unit enters the tube with their equipment. Behind them, a young officer anxiously runs towards the cab and enters nervously, holding a phone in his hand. “Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes!” he calls out and Sherlock turns and walks towards the driver’s cab.

“What is it?” he asks, still smiling.

“Sir, its Detective Inspector Lestrade. He says... he says it’s urgent,” the officer stammers. He looked uneasy.

“What is it about?” Sherlock asks.

The officer does not respond. He simply stares at Sherlock’s face, wondering how to break the dreadful news to him. “It’s... it’s about your brother, sir,” he replies, trying to mask his grief.

He fails. Sherlock sees right through him, and after he said those words the gleam in his face was gone, and was now replaced with rigid perplexity. He stretched out his hand worriedly and the young officer hands him the phone, and looks down. Sherlock looks at him nervously and slowly raises the phone in his ear and answers. “Lestrade, _what_ happened to my brother?”

* * *

 

 

Soon after pressing the button, Mary aka Moran waited patiently for the palace of Westminster to explode. She changed the channel to the news again, curiously waiting for the “Breaking News” bit to appear, to watch the horror-stricken, panicked face of the entire nation staring helplessly while their leaders burn to death. After the clock passed 2:30 minutes, Moran panicked. The bomb did not go off, everything remained the same. The signing continued at the Chamber. She gasped, and realized that she had been _made_. “Sherlock,” she said to herself. Her employer warned her about him, including Magnusson. In that case, there was only one thing she could do. Run.

Moran tucked her blonde hair behind her ear and got out of her room with her bag in a hurry. Nearby, a uniformed waitress of the hotel walked along a corridor pushing a trolley of food and wine, and Moran walks past her. She rushes towards the elevators and pushes the button repeatedly. Frantic and worried, she was now running for her life. Suddenly she heard the clicking of the gun behind her, and the waitress who walked past her now stood behind her and said: “Freeze!” Moran dropped her bag and lifted her hands up in the air, and was later surrounded by 5 more agents disguised in hotel staff uniforms. When Greg heard Moran’s name while he was in the car listening to Silvia and Mycroft’s conversation, he immediately called his contacts at the British Secret Service, given to him by Mycroft, and asked them to locate and arrest her, saying she was a national threat. They moved in on her immediately with full force. Now after getting the news that the very own Mycroft Holmes was dead, the head of the Secret Service had several questions for her. She was arrested and moved into a secret location, where she would be questioned, and not kindly.

* * *

 

 

A week had passed since the incident at the warehouse. Mycroft Holmes was dead, and Sherlock received the news from Greg Lestrade. At that moment he felt like the ground was pulled from underneath him. His brother, his role model, his voice of supreme authority, was taken away from him. He froze where he stood, at the carriage, and later the phone dropped from his hands. He walked out of the carriage, like a ghost, lifeless and dazing towards nothing, and walked along the tracks towards the exit. John saw him and walked behind him calling out his name, but there was no answer. He remained frozen and stoic all through his ride at the morgue where Mycroft’s body was, and as he walked inside towards Molly and Greg- Molly recently crying and Greg’s face pale- he needed no more confirmation that Mycroft was really dead after looking at both their faces. Molly lifted up the sheet and Sherlock took one last look at him, but he couldn’t recognize him. Mycroft seemed completely different, his pallor was blue and deadened and his face was rid of all emotions. He lay there, lifeless and stone-like, and Sherlock for a moment seemed to stumble where he stood. John grabbed his shoulder with both hands, trying to stop him from falling at the sight. Sherlock’s expression was that of an innocent child, lost and confused and helpless. He did not cry, he simply looked towards Lestrade and tried to mouth the words.

“Wh- who did this? T- Tell me,” Sherlock stammered.

Greg told him everything. Everything from meeting Magnusson, to Mary being Moran and Magnusson shooting Mycroft. Greg told Sherlock about shooting Silvia Magnusson in the head, in which Sherlock gave an exasperated sigh, since he would have liked to kill her by himself, to actually make her suffer. After hearing it all, Sherlock took one last good look at Mycroft, and closed his eyes to turn at Lestrade.

“Thank you, for being there for him at the end,” he said to Greg and walked out of the room, John behind him. At times like these, it was Mycroft who usually had to tell John to be near him at all times, to keep a close eye, but now he did not need to tell him that anymore. John needed no advice to be near Sherlock at all times, especially now, when Sherlock’s heart was truly broken. They rode in silence towards 221B, John grasping Sherlock’s hand all through the way, while Sherlock looked outside the window vacantly, unable to react. They reached the flat only to find a hysterical Mrs. Hudson sobbing uncontrollably after hearing the news from Molly.

“Oh Sherlock,” she sniffed and got closer to him as they entered, but Sherlock took no notice of her and walked upstairs towards his room, slowly. His face revealed nothing, and John stopped downstairs and said: “It’s best to leave him be for now, Mrs. Hudson.” She nodded, still sobbing, and hugged John. He later went upstairs to find Sherlock in his bed, lying sideways fully clothed, eyes wide open. John walked towards him without saying anything, removed Sherlock’s shoes and socks and slowly untangling the scarf from his neck, and walked towards the other side and hopped next to him on the bed. He lifted Sherlock’s head and placed his arm underneath and hugged him tight. Sherlock did not respond, he simply kept staring unemotionally. Few hours later, John still kept hugging him, stroking his hair, and Sherlock finally closed his eyes and hugged John as tightly as he could. He began to weep silently, unable to breathe from the agony of his heartache that he was finally coming to terms with. John did not leave him, he kept hugging him all night, kissing his forehead and his cheeks and brushing his hand against his locks constantly. Sherlock passed out around 3am, whilst John lay there awake, watching over him.

The funeral was attended by many. To Sherlock’s and John’s amazement, they never realized how influential Mycroft’s position actually was. He was given an honorary memorial service, and many of the country’s most powerful men and women came to pay their respects. Mycroft’s parents came as well; their reaction to their son’s untimely death was severely painful to see. Sherlock comforted them all through the way, without losing his own sense of composure. His heart wanted him to fall to his knees and weep for his brother, but his brain suggested that it was no time to lose one’s sense of self-control. Rather, it was the voice of Mycroft who spoke these words to him in his Mind Palace. He smiled as he heard his voice one more time. Greg gave the eulogy; he almost broke down crying momentarily but retained himself and continued. Later on as everybody left, Sherlock chose to stay behind and John, as always, did not leave his side.

Sherlock stared at Mycroft’s glossy black tombstone at the cemetery. It was almost the same as the one he had when he faked his own death. Nothing else was inscribed on it, except the words “MYCROFT HOLMES” neatly emblazoned in the middle. He looked at it and travelled back to his memories of his big brother, they were a mixture of good and bad, but the good ones eliminated all the bad ones. Sherlock didn’t care anymore that Mycroft chose to ignore him during most of his childhood; it didn’t matter any longer since he more than made up for it by being there for him all through his adult life. Because of Mycroft, he realizes, he was standing there alive and well, else he would have spiralled uncontrollably into a life of drugs and addiction, inevitably ending up killing himself. But Mycroft never let that happen. Like an invincible God, he kept a watchful eye over him, his austerity and low-tolerance for Sherlock’s antics made him the disciplined high-functioning genius he is now; without him Sherlock would have been absolutely lost.

John moved closer towards Sherlock and grabbed his hand. They both stared at the tombstone and John looked at Sherlock. “Are you okay?” he asked.

Sherlock looked at him and gave a tiny smile. He looked away, and hinted towards the tombstone, saying: “Look at that John. Here lies the most powerful man in England that the world will never know.”

John looked at the name inscribed. “Yes but we’ll know. All of us that knew him. That was his specialty, wasn’t it? His specialism was omniscience.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed. He then sighed, looking a bit sad. “Ugh, can’t believe my last words to him were ‘let me do your job for you while you attend to your masters,’” Sherlock said with remorse. John tightened his grip.

“He knew you loved him, Sherlock. You didn’t have to tell him that. He always knew it. And he loved you too,” John replied in a calming manner. “He truly was, _great_.”

“That was him,” Sherlock agreed with his friend. “He was the central exchange, the clearinghouse. People looked up to him. Now the world has lost a great man.”

“Yes it did,” John replied and sighed, “We will always remember him for who he was, Sherlock. He was a powerful man.”

“He wasn’t just that,” Sherlock retorted with a smile, pausing momentarily, and speaking again: “He was a _king_ , with his own unique throne. And none dared to challenge him. And also,” he paused then said, “He was an amazing brother.”

John smiled and looked at him. Sherlock turned to look at him, and John took both of his hands into his own. “Let’s go home, Sherlock,” John asked.

Sherlock smiled and kissed him on the lips. “Yes, let’s,” he said as he pulled back and stood straight, “We’re not finished yet. There is still work to be done.” They both walked away and Sherlock briefly glanced over his shoulder to get one last look, and then turned towards the front, slowly walking away from the grave of Mycroft Holmes.

* * *

 

 

A week after Mycroft’s funeral, Greg Lestrade walked into the department and into his office again, resuming work after taking a week’s leave of absence. He threw his coat on one of the empty chairs and sat roughly in his chair, sighing. He was in no mood to come back to work, and after listening to Silvia and Mycroft’s conversation over and over he still couldn’t make any head or tail of it. He still hasn’t shared it with Sherlock, the tape had very sensitive information revealing the truth of Mycroft’s relation with him, and Greg supposed it was not his secret to disclose.

After sulking there for about an hour or two, there was a sudden knock on his door. “Come in,” he ordered and Sergeant Sally Donovan walked into his office. “It’s the chief superintendent Broyles sir, he’s asking for you in his office upstairs.”

“Alright, I’ll be there, thanks,” he replies and Donovan leaves, closing the door. The new chief superintendent was stricter and more punctual, and Greg assumed he wanted to lecture him about not taking any more leave of absences.

Greg reluctantly puts on his coat and throws his half-eaten doughnut in the bin. He gets out of the elevator and enters the top floor, and reaches Philip Broyles’ office.

“May I come in, sir?” Greg asks and Broyles looks up from his desk. “Yes, come in detective,” he asks politely, “Take a seat.”

Greg sits down and Broyles puts aside the paperwork he was signing. “I have some news for you, detective inspector. Something I wanted to tell you a week ago but I had to wait since you were absent.”

Greg twitched in his seat uncomfortably and asked: “What kind of news sir?”

“Some good news detective,” Broyles assured. “You’re getting a huge promotion.”

Greg was astounded. With his irregularity these past few days and his bad reputation of taking a private detective’s help to solve his cases, he never thought that he could ever get a promotion. “A man was recently deceased and you are taking over his position,” Broyles continued.

Greg cleared his throat, still mystified by the news. “And to what position am I being promoted to, sir?” he gently asked.

“Mycroft’s,” Broyles replied. Greg’s eyes went wide.

“What?”

“It was in his last _will and testament_ , Inspector Lestrade. I was present there when it was being read. The night he died, he called me in the afternoon, telling me that if anything were to happen to him, and he feared it might, that you were to take over his job. It’s true Greg. He put it in his will. You are his only replacement.”

“But... but,” Greg stammered, immensely baffled, “But _why_? Why _me_?” He plainly asked.

Broyles took a deep breath and placed his elbows on the table. He leaned forward, and spoke again in all honesty: “To quote Mycroft himself, to whom I asked this question myself, and who said this to me the last time we ever spoke, ‘Greg may not be the intellectual one usually desires, but he makes up for it with his indissoluble loyalty and unyielding courage. And that is why he deserves it.’”

* * *

* * *

 

**EPILOGUE**

A week later, Greg Lestrade sits in his car riding along the rainy streets of London, while Anthea sat next to him, texting on her blackberry. Greg was still adjusting to his new job, the magnitude of his position and the enormity of his reach seemed to take him by surprise every day. His job was like an adventure now, and he discovered new things about it every day. Unlike the banality of his old job, his new job practically granted him the authority to do anything. Anthea helped him through everything else; Mycroft had instructed her to guide his new replacement in every step of the way.

Greg had inherited most of Mycroft’s belongings, his job, his house, his money and his offshore accounts, except for a few items of sentimental value that were sent to his parents. His notebooks, however, were given to Sherlock. It contained all of his theories and deductions, ranging from string theory to aeronautics engineering to theoretical physics to certain fields of medicine. Sherlock laid them down and went through all of them for days, amazed by the depth of his genius and never realizing what a brilliant scientist Mycroft actually was. His charisma was remarkable; it was evident in all of his detailed notes. Mycroft thought these were something Sherlock would come to value, instead of his money. “Still taking me school, even from beyond the grave,” Sherlock beamed while reading one of his notebooks.

Greg now headed nervously towards Baker Street. He was about to give Sherlock the audio file which contained the conversation Mycroft and Silvia had the night they both died. This would reveal everything to Sherlock, but nevertheless, if Mycroft trusted him with his job, he trusted him with his secrets, Greg presumed. He reached 221B and walked into John and Sherlock’s flat, the boys welcoming him, now acknowledging him differently, as a more distinct, more powerful figure, and not the fumbling detective anymore. Greg simply sat in John’s chair and handed Sherlock the USB drive which contained the audio. Sherlock connected it to John’s laptop and clicked on the file, and the three of them listened intently to the conversation.

After the audio reached its end, Greg looked towards both their faces and saw the dazed and shocked expressions on them. John put his hands on his mouth, trying to hide the shock which was evident in his broad eyes and Sherlock kept staring at the screen, mouth agape. He couldn’t believe it. Mycroft was his father. After all this time. He never knew it. He was Mycroft’s son.

Sherlock replayed the audio and after it stopped towards the end when Mycroft breathed his last, he played it again. He listened to every word intently. Each word felt like a needle piercing every part of his body, like the very fabric of reality had massively been changed for Sherlock, while John buried his face in his hands, taken aback by it all, by Silvia, by Mary actually being Moran, by Mycroft, everything. Sherlock then slanted back towards his chair, his fingertips touching his chin, and tried to contemplate the reality of the situation that had just surfaced in front of him.

After a few minutes, which felt like hours for Greg, Sherlock began at last: “And where is this... Moran? Where is she being held?”

“At a secret location outside the city of Westchester. She has been questioned every day, even coerced to reveal something but till now the Secret Service hasn’t been able to bring anything out of her,” Greg replied.

Sherlock looked away and said again, sternly: “I’d like to meet her, in fact I insist. The only person that can make her reveal something is me.”

“I concur,” Greg agreed, “I’ll make sure my men take you to her as soon as possible.”

“I’d like to meet her too, again,” John replied, grunting. He could not believe he was once in love with a woman who was lying and deceiving him all along. And now, he would very much like to see her again, to get some sort of redemption seeing her suffer.

“And this _employer_? Have you found anything? Who it is, why Silvia Magnusson,” he gritted his teeth as he uttered her name, “an old newspaper proprietor, came to work for this... person?”

“We don’t know yet,” Greg admitted, “We’ve looked at everything. Her phone records, her previous meetings, none of them points to any suspicious characters.”

“I’m gonna need all of that,” Sherlock ordered. “All of Silvia’s old contacts, all her personal belongings. I’m sure I can find something that would link me to this mysterious third party.”

“Of course,” Greg replied, “I’ll send over everything. Do you think this unknown employer of hers is linked to the whole lot?” He asked.

Sherlock got up from his chair and paced about the room, trying to think. “Yes, Lestrade, whoever this mystery ‘employer’ of hers is, he or she was powerful enough to provide Silvia an entire tube carriage full of explosives to carry out her vengeance. Now clearly he or she wants me dead, Silvia was pretty clear on that, but the question is, why. And who this person really was.”

Just then, Greg’s phone rang and he looked who it was. Anthea was calling him from the car, without getting out. “Anthea, I’m gonna be a little late here,” he began after answering her call.

“Sir, turn on the television now!” Anthea replied, sounding unnerved.

“Why?” Greg asked.

“You need to see this, sir,” she firmly insisted. Greg hung up and looked at John. “Turn on the telly, something’s going on,” he tells John and he does as he’s asked, picking up the remote and pressing the button.

He didn’t need to change any channel. A familiar figure appeared on the screen, smirking devilishly just like before and Sherlock turned around. He could not believe his eyes, and as Greg and John stared at the screen in utter disbelief, this recognizable face smiled at the three of them and repeated his words.

_“Did you miss me?”_

 

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all have enjoyed this fic.

**Author's Note:**

> I have changed the age of Mycroft Holmes from 7 to 15 years older than Sherlock, to better suit my story. 
> 
> A big thanks to Zen Chua, for being my beta reader, and my inspiration to keep going.
> 
> Do leave your comments and share your valuable feedback once you've read it. Also follow me on www.high-functioning-hunter.tumblr.com to view my upcoming fanart on this fic, or email me at pujashreesharma.ps@gmail.com (twitter: @pujashreesharma), if you have any other feedback. Thanks!
> 
> This story has been inspired from the show "BBC Sherlock" written by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss. All rights reserved to the creators of the show and to BBC. No copyright infringement intended.


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